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JUDE  THE  OBSCURE 


BY 

THOMAS    HARDY 

AUTHOR    OF 

"TLSS   OF  THE   d'uREERVILLES  "    "  LIFE'S   LITTLE   IRONIES' 
"FAR   FROM   THE   MADDING   CROWD"   ETC. 


"Tlie  letter  kiitetk'' 


ILLUSTRATED 


NEW    YORK 
HARPER  &   BROTHERS.  PUBLISHERS 

FRANKLIN  SQUARE 
1S96 


Copyright,  iSgs,  by  Harper  cS:  Brothers. 


All  rishts  reserved. 


A/ 


PREFACE 


The  history  of  this  novel  (whose  birth  in  its  pres- 
ent shape  has  been  much  retarded  by  the  necessities 
of  periodical  publication)  is  briefly  as  follows.  The 
scheme  was  jotted  down  in  1890,  from  notes  made 
in  1887  and  onward,  some  of  the  circumstances  being 
suggested  by  the  death  of  a  woman  in  the  form.er 
year.  The  scenes  were  revisited  in  October,  1892 ; 
the  narrative  was  written  in  outline  in  1892  and  the 
spring  of  1893,  and  at  full  length,  as  it  now 'appears, 
from  August,  1893,  onward  into  the  next  year-,  the 
whole,  with  the  exception  of  a  few  chapters,  being  in 
the  hands  of  the  publisher  by  the  end  of  1894.  It 
was  begun  as  a  serial  story  in  Harper's  Magazine  at 
the  end  of  November,  1894,  and  was  continued  in 
monthly  parts. 

But,  as  in  the  case  of  Tcss  of  the  Z>'  Urbervillcs,  the 
magazine  version  was,  for  various  reasons,  abridged 
and  modified  in  some  degree,  the  present  edition  be- 
ing the  first  in  which  the  whole  appears  as  originally 
written.  And  in  the  difficulty  of  coming  to  an  early 
decision  in  the  matter  of  a  title,  the  tale  was  issued 
under  a  provisional  name — two  such  titles  having,  in 
fact,  been  successively  adopted.  The  present  and 
final  title,  deemed  on  the  whole  tlie  best,  was  one  of 
the  earliest  thought  of. 


IV  PREFACE 

For  a  novel  addressed  by  a  man  to  men  and  women 
of  full  age,  which  attempts  to  deal  unaffectedly  with 
the  fret  and  fever,  derision  and  disaster,  that  may 
press  in  the  wake  of  the  strongest  passion  known  to 
humanity,  and  to  point,  without  a  mincing  of  words, 
the  tragedy  of  unfulfilled  aims,  I  am  not  aware  that 
there  is  anything  in  the  handling  to  which  exception 
can  be  taken. 

Like  former  productions  of  this  pen,  J/V///^  ///t-  O/'- 
sciire  is  simply  an  endeavor  to  give  shape  and  coher- 
ence to  a  series  of  seemings,  or  personal  impressions, 
the  question  of  their  consistency  or  their  discordance, 
of  their  permanence  or  their  transitoriness,  being  re- 
garded as  not  of  the  first  moment. 

T.  H. 
August,  1S95. 


CONTENTS 


PART  I 

PACE 

Ar  Marvgreex,  I-XI 3 


PART    II 

At   CllKISTMINSTER,   I-VII 87 

PART    III 

At  Melchester,  I-X 151 

PART  IV 

At  Shaston,  I-VI 235 

PART  V 

At  Aldurickham  and  Elsewhere,  I-VIII     .     .     .303 

PART  VI 

At  Christminster  again,  I-XI 383 


ILLUSTRATIONS 


'  I  OUGHT   NOT   TO   1!E   BORX,  OUGHT  I  ?'"  .       .      .       .    Frontispiece 


THREE    YOUNG    WOMEN    WERE    KNEELING 

'  SEE   HOW    he's    SERVED    ME  !'    SHE   CRIED  "   . 

A    KNOCK    BROUGHT    HIM   T()   THE    DOOR  "       . 

JUDE  STOOD  UP  AND  BEGAN  RHETORICALLY  " 

SHE      LOOKED      INTO      HIS      EYES     WITH      HER 
OWN   TEARFUL   ONES  " 

'  JUDE  !'  SAID   A   VOICE,  TIMIDLY  "  .      .      .      . 

THERE  ON  THE  GRAVEL  LAY  A  WHITE  HEAP" 

HER   ADVENT   SEEMED   GHOSTLY  "     .      .       .       . 

A      SMALL,    SLOW      VOICE      ROSE      FROM       THE 
SHADE   OF   THE   FIRESIDE  " 

SUE    CONTINUED    TO    TEAR    THE    LINEN    INTO 
STRIPS "  

JUDE  AT   THE'MILE-STONE 


Facing  page  3^ 

•'  7S 

"  116 

'•  142 

"  206 

"  254 

"  263 

"  296 

"  334 

"    ••  436 

"  466 


Part  I 

AT   MARYGREEN 


' '  ] V(?,  many  there  be  that  have  run  out  of  their  ti'its  for  'wom- 
en, and  become  se7'vants  for  tJieir  sokes.  Many  also  have  perished, 
have  erred,  and  sinned,  for  ivomen.  ...  0  ye  men,  how  can  it  be 
hut  women  should  be  strong,  seeing  they  do  thus?" — ESDRAS. 


\ 


I 

The  school-master  was  leaving  the  village,  and  every- 
body seemed  sorry.  The  miller  at  Cresscombe  lent  him 
the  small  white  tilted  cart  and  horse  to  carry  his  goods 
to  the  city  of  his  destination,  about  twenty  miles  off,  such 
a  vehicle  proving  of  quite  sufficient  size  for  the  departing 
teacher's  effects.  For  the  school-house  had  been  partly 
furnished  by  the  managers,  and  the  only  cumbersome 
article  possessed  by  the  master,  in  addition  to  the  pack- 
ing-case of  books,  was  a  cottage  piano  that  he  had  bought 
at  an  auction  during  the  year  in  which  he  thought  of 
learning  instrumental  music.  But  the  enthusiasm  having 
waned,  he  had  never  acquired  any  skill  in  playing,  and  the 
purchased  article  had  been  a  perpetual  trouble  to  him 
ever  since  in  moving  house. 

The  rector  had  gone  away  for  the  day,  being  a  man 
who  disliked  the  sight  of  changes.  He  did  not  mean  to 
return  till  the  evening,  when  the  new  school-teacher 
would  have  arrived  and  settled  in,  and  everything  would 
be  smooth  again. 

The  blacksmith,  the  farm  bailiff,  and  the  school-master 
himself  were  standing  in  perplexed  attitudes  in  the  par- 
lor before  the  instrument.  The  master  had  remarked 
that  even  if  he  got  it  into  the  cart  he  should  not  know 
what  to  do  with  it  on  his  arrival  at  Christminstcr,  the  city 
he  was  bound  for,  since  he  was  only  going  into  temporary 
lodgings  just  at  first. 

A  little  boy  of  eleven,  who  had  been  thoughtfully  as- 
sisting in  the  packing,  joined  the  group  of  men,  and  as 
they  rubbed  their  chins  he  spoke  up,  blushing  at  the  sound 


4  JUDE  THE   OBSCURE 

of  his  own  voice  :  "  Aunt  hev  got  a  great  fuel-house,  and 
it  could  be  put  there,  perhaps,  till  you've  found  a  place  to 
settle  in,  sir." 

"A  proper  good  notion,"  said  the  blacksmith. 
It  was  decided  that  a  deputation  should  wait  on  the 
boy's  aunt — an  old  maiden  resident — and  ask  her  if  she 
would  house  the  piano  till  Mr.  Phillotson  should  send  for 
it.  The  smith  and  the  bailiff  started  to  see  the  practica- 
bility of  the  suggested  shelter,  and  the  boy  and  the  school- 
master were  left  standing  alone. 

"  Sorry  I  am  going,  Jude.-*"  asked  the  latter,  kindly. 
Tears  rose  into  the  boy's  eyes,  for  he  was  not  among 
the  regular  day  scholars,  who  came  unromantically  close 
to  the  school-master's  life,  but  one  who  had  attended  the 
night  school  only  during  the  present  teacher's  term  of 
office.  The  regular  scholars,  if  the  truth  must  be  told, 
stood  at  the  present  moment  afar  off,  like  certain  his- 
toric disciples,  indisposed  to  any  enthusiastic  volunteer- 
ing of  aid. 

The  boy  awkwardly  opened  the  book  he  held  in  his 
hand,  which  Mr.  Phillotson  had  bestowed  on  him  as  a 
parting  gift,  and  admitted  that  he  was  sorry. 
"  So  am  I,"  said  Mr.  Phillotson. 
"  Why  do  you  go,  sir.'"  asked  the  boy. 
"  Ah — that  would  be  a  long  story.     You  wouldn't  un- 
derstand ray  reasons,  Jude.     You  will,  perhaps,  when  you 
are  older." 

"  I  think  I  should  now,  sir." 

"  Well — don't  speak  of  this  everywhere.  You  know 
what  a  university  is,  and  a  university  degree.''  It  is  the 
necessary  hall-mark  of  a  man  who  wants  to  do  anything 
in  teaching.  My  scheme,  or  dream,  is  to  be  a  university 
graduate,  and  then  to  be  ordained.  By  going  to  live  at 
Christminster,  or  near  it,  I  shall  be  at  headquarters,  so  to 
speak,  and  if  my  scheme  is  practicable  at  all,  I  consider 
that  being  on  the  spot  will  afford  me  a  better  chance  of 
carrying  it  out  than  I  should  have  elsewhere." 


AT   MARYGREEN  VS 


'J 


The  smith  and  his  companion  returned.  Old  Miss 
Fawley's  fuel-house  was  dry,  and  eminently  practicable; 
and  she  seemed  willing  to  give  the  instrument  standing- 
room  there.  It  was  accordingly  left  in  the  school  till  the 
evenino",  when  more  hands  would  be  available  for  re- 
moving it,  and  the  school- master  gave  a  final  glance 
around. 

The  boy  Jude  assisted  in  loading  some  small  articles, 
and  at  nine  o'clock  Mr.  Phillotson  mounted  beside  his 
box  of  books  and  other  impedimenta,  ^.nd.  bade  his  friends 
good-bye. 

"I  sha'n't  forget  you,  Jude,"  he  said,  smiling,  as  the 
cart  moved  off.  "  Be  a  good  boy,  remember ;  and  be 
kind  to  animals  and  birds,  and  read  all_you  can.  And  if 
ever  you  come  to  Christminster,  remember  you  hunt  me 
out  for  old  acquaintance'  sake." 

The  cart  creaked  across  the  green,  and  disappeared 
round  the  corner  by  the  rectory-house.  The  boy  returned 
to  the  draw-well  at  the  edge  of  the  greensward,  where  he 
had  left  his  buckets  when  he  went  to  help  his  patron  and 
teacher  in  the  loading.  There  was  a  quiver  in  his  lip 
now,  and  after  opening  the  well-cover  to  begin  lowering 
the  bucket,  he  paused  and  leaned  with  his  forehead  and 
arms  against  the  frame-work,  his  face  wearing  the  fixity 
of  a  thoughtful  child's  who  has  felt  the  pricks  of  life 
somewhat  before  his  time.  The  well  into  which  he  was 
looking  was  as  ancient  as  the  village  itself,  and  from  his 
present  position  appeared  as  a  long  circular  perspective 
ending  in  a  shining  disk  of  quivering  water  at  a  distance 
of  a  hundred  feet.  There  was  a  lining  of  green  moss  near 
the  top.  and  nearer  still  the  hart's-tongue  fern. 

He  said  to  himself,  in  the  melodramatic  tones  of  a 
whimsical  boy,  that  the  school-master  had  drawn  at  that 
well  scores  of  times  on  a  morning  like  this,  and  would 
never  draw  there  any  more.  "  I've  seen  him  look  down 
into  it,  when  he  was  tired  with  his  drawing,  just  as  I  do 
now,  and  when  he  rested  a  bit  before  carrying  the  buckets 


© 


JUDE  THE  OBSCURE 


C  home !     But  he  was  too  clever  to  bide  here  any  longer — 
a  small  sleepy  place  like  this  !" 

A  tear  rolled  from  his  eye  into  the  depths  of  the  well. 
The  morning  was  a  little  foggy,  and  the  boy's  breathing 
unfurled  itself  as  a  thicker  fog  upon  the  still  and  heavy 
air.     His  thoughts  were  interrupted  by  a  sudden  outcry : 

"  Bring  on  that  water,  will  ye,  you  idle  young  harlican  !" 

It  came  from  an  old  woman  who  had  emerged  from  her 
door  towards  the  garden-gate  of  a  green-thatched  cottage 
not  far  off.  The  boy  quickly  waved  a  signal  of  assent, 
drew  the  water  with  what  was  a  great  effort  for  one  of 
his  stature,  landed  and  emptied  the  big  bucket  into  his 
own  pair  of  smaller  ones,  and  pausing  a  moment  for 
breath,  started  with  them  across  the  patch  of  clammy 
greensward  whereon  the  well  stood — nearly  in  the  centre 
of  the  little  village,  or  rather  hamlet. 

It  was  as  old-fashioned  as  it  was  small,  and  it  rested 
in  the  lap  of  an  undulating  upland  adjoining  the  North 
Wessex  downs.  Old  as  it  was,  however,  the  well-shaft 
was  probably  the  only  relic  of  the  local  history  that  re- 
mained absolutely  unchanged.  Many  of  the  thatched  and 
dormercd  dwelling-houses  had  been  pulled  down  of  late 
years,  and  many  trees  felled  on  the  green.  Abov^c  all, 
the  original  church,  hump-backed,  wood-turreted,  and 
quaintly  hipped,  had  been  taken  down,  and  either  cracked 
up  into  heaps  of  road-metal  in  the  lane,  or  utilized  as 
pig-sty  walls,  garden  seats,  guard -stones  to  fences,  and 
rockeries  in  the  flower-beds  of  the  neighborhood.  In 
place  of  it  a  tall  new  building  of  German-Gothic  design, 
unfamiliar  to  English  eyes,  had  been  erected  on  a  new 
piece  of  ground  by  a  certain  obliterator  of  historic  rec- 
ords who  had  run  down  from  London  and  back  in  a  day. 
The  site  whereon  so  long  had  stood  the  ancient  temple 
to  the  Christian  divinities  was  not  even  recorded  on  the 
green  and  level  grass-plot  that  had  immemorially  been  the 
churchyard,  the  obliterated  graves  being  commemorated 
by  ninepenny  cast-iron  crosses  warranted  to  last  five  years. 


II 

Slender  as  was  Jude  Fawley's  frame,  he  bore  the  two 
brimming  house-buckets  of  water  to  the  cottage  without 
resting.  Over  the  door  was  a  httle  rectangular  piece  of 
blue  board,  on  which  was  painted  in  yellow  letters,  "  Dru- 
silla  Fawley,  Baker."  Within  the  little  lead  panes  of  the 
window — this  being  one  of  the  few  old  houses  left — were 
five  bottles  of  sweets,  and  three  buns  on  a  plate  of  the 
willow  pattern. 

While  emptying  the  buckets  at  the  back  of  the  house 
he  could  hear  an  animated  conversation  in  progress  within- 
doors between  his  great-aunt,  the  Drusilla  of  the  sign- 
board, and  some  other  villagers.  Having  seen  the  school- 
master depart,  they  were  summing  up  particulars  of  the 
event,  and  indulging  in  predictions  of  his  future. 

"And  who's  he.'"  asked  one,  comparatively  a  stranger, 
when  the  boy  entered. 

"Well  ye  mcd  ask  it,  Mli  Williams.  He's  my  great- 
nephew —  come  since  you  was  last  this  way."  The  old 
inhabitant  who  answered  was  a  tall,  gaunt  woman,  who 
spoke  tragically  ""J^^^  "''Ofit  t.r''^''^^  tinhjprt  and  gave  a 
phrase  of  her  conversation  to  each  auditor  in  turn.  "  He 
come  from  Mcllstock,  down  in  South  Wcssex,  about  a 
year  ago  —  worse  luck  for  'n,  Belinda"  (turning  to  the 
right),  "  where  his  father  was  living,  and  was  took  wi'  the 
shakings  for  death,  and  died  in  two  days,  as  you  know, 
Caroline  "  (turning  to  the  left).  "  It  would  ha'  been  a 
blessing  if  Goddy- mighty  had  took  thee  too,  wi'  thy 
mother  and  father,  poor  useless  boy!  But  I've  got  him 
here  to  stay  with  me  till  I  can  see  what's  to  be  done  with 


8  JUDE  THE   OBSCURE 

un,  though  I  be  obliged  to  let  him  earn  any  penny  he 
can.  Just  now  he's  a-scaring  of  birds  for  Farmer  Trout- 
ham.  It  keeps  un  out  of  mischty.  Why  do  ye  turn 
away,  Jude.^"  she  continued,  as  the  boy,  feeling  the  im- 
pact .of  their  glances  like  slaps  upon  his  face,  moved  aside. 

The  local  washer-woman  replied  that  it  was  perhaps  a 
very  good  plan  of  Miss  or  Mrs.  Fawley's  (as  they  called 
her  indifferently)  to  have  him  with  her — "  to  kip  'ee  com- 
pany in  your  loneliness,  fetch  water,  shet  the  winder-shet- 
ters  o'  nights,  and  help  in  the  bit  o'  baking." 

Miss  Fawley  doubted  it.  .  .  .  "Why  didn't  ye  get  the 
school-master  to  take  'ee  to  Christminster  wi'  un,  and 
make  a  scholar  of  "ee,"  she  continued,  in  frowning  pleas- 
antry. "  Fm  sure  he  couldn't  ha'  took  a  better  one. 
The  boy  is  crazy  for  books,  that  he  is.  It  runs  in  our  fam- 
ily rather.  His  cousin  Sue  is  just  the  same  —  so  I've 
heard ;  but  I  have  not  seen  the  chile  for  years,  though 
she  was  born  in  this  place,  within  these  four  walls,  as  it 
happened.  My  niece  and  her  husband,  after  they  were 
married,  didn'  get  a  house  of  their  own  for  some  year  or 
more  ;  and  then  they  only  had  one  till —  Well,  I  won't  go 
into  that.  Jude,  my  chile,  don't  yoii  ever  marry.  'Tisn't 
for  the  Fawleys  to  take  that  step  any  more.  She,  their 
only  one,  was  like  a  chile  o'  my  own,  Belinda,  till  the  split 
come !    Ah,  that  a  little  maid  should  know  such  changes  .'" 

Jude,  finding  the  general  attention  again  centring  on 
himself,  went  out  to  the  bakehouse,  where  he  ate  the 
cake  provided  for  his  breakfast.  The  end  of  his  spare 
time  had  now  arrived,  and  emerging  from  the  garden  by 
getting  over  the  hedge  at  the  back,  he  pursued  a  path 
northward,  till  he  came  to  a  wide  and  lonely  depression 
in  the  general  lev^el  of  the  upland,  which  was  sown  as  a 
cornfield.  This  vast  concave  was  the  scene  of  his  labors 
for  Mr.  Troutham,  the  farmer,  and  he  descended  into  the 
midst  of  it. 

The  brown  surface  of  the  field  went  right  up  towards 
the  sky  all  round,  where  it  was  lost  by  degrees  in  the  mist 


AT   MARYGREEN  9 

that  shut  out  the  actual  verge  and  accentuated  the  soli- 
tude. The  only  marks  on  the  uniformity  of  the  scq^jie 
were  a  rick  of  last  year's  produce  standing  in  the  midst 
of  the  arable,  the  rooks  that  rose  at  his  approach,  and  the 
path  athwart  the  fallow  by  which  he  had  come,  trodden 
now  by  he  hardly  knew  whom,  though  once  by  many  of 
his  own  dead  family. 

"  How  ugly  it  is  here !"  he  murmured. 

The  fresh  harrow-lines  seemed  to  stretch  like  the  chan- 
nellings  in  a  piece  of  new  corduroy,  lending  a  meanly  util- 
itarian air  to  the  expanse,  taking  away  its  gradations,  and 
depriving  it  of  all  history  beyond  that  of  the  few  recent 
months,  though  in  every  clod  and  stone  there  really  lin- 
gered associations  enough  and  to  spare — echoes  of  songs 
from  ancient  harvest-days,  of  spoken  words,  and  of  sturdy 
deeds.  Every  inch  of  ground  had  been  the  site,  first  or 
last,  of  energy,  gayety,  horse-play,  bickerings,  weariness. 
Groups  of  gleaners  had  squatted  in  the  sun  on  every 
square  yard.  Love-matches  that  had  populated  the  ad- 
joining hamlet  had  been  made  up  there  between  reaping  v  m' 
and  carrying.  Under  the  hedge  which  divided  the  field [i/l\A- 
from  a  distant  plantation  girls  had  given  themselves  to  ?u^ 
lovers  who  w'ould  not  turn  their  heads  to  look  at  them  ^ 
by  the  next  harvest;  and  in  that  ancient  cornfield  many 
a  man  had  made  love -promises  to  a  woman  at  whose 
voice  he  had  trembled  by  the  next  seed-time  after  fulfill- 
ing them  in  the  church  adjoining.  But  this  neither  Jude 
nor  the  rooks  around  him  considered.  For  them  it  was 
a  lonely  place,possessing,  in  the  one  view,  only  the  quality 
of  a  work-ground,  and  in  the  other  that  of  a  granary  good 
to  feed  in. 

The  boy  stood  under  the  rick  before  mentioned,  and 
every  few  seconds  used  his  clacker  or  rattle  briskly.  At 
each  clack  the  rooks  left  ofT  pecking,  and  rose  and  went 
away  on  their  leisurely  wings,  burnished  like  tassets  of 
mail,  afterwards  wheeling  back  and  regarding  him  warily, 
and  descending  to  feed  at  a  more  respectful  distance. 


vIO^  JUDE   THK   OBSCURE 

He  sounded  the  clacker  till  his  arm  ached,  and  at  length 
hjg  heart  grew  sympathetic  with  the  birds'  thwarted  de- 
sires. They  seemed,  like  himself,  to  be  living  in  a  world 
which  did  not  want  them.  Why  should  he  frighten 
them  away.-*  They  took  upon  them  more  and  more  the 
aspect  of  gentle  friends  and  pensioners — the  only  friends 
he  could  claim  as  being  in  the  least  degree  interested 
in  him,  for  his  aunt  had  often  told  him  that  she  was  not. 
He  ceased  his  rattling,  and  they  alighted  anew. 

"  Poor  little  dears  !"  said  Jude,  aloud.  "  You  s/ia// have 
some  dinner — you  shall.  There  is  enough  for  us  all. 
Farmer  Troutham  can  afford  to  let  you  have  some.  Eat, 
then,  my  dear  little  birdies,  and  make  a  good  meal !" 

They  stayed  and  ate,  inky  spots  on  the  nut-brown  soil, 
and  Jude  enjoyed  their  appetite.  A  magic  thread  of  fel- 
low-feeling united  his  own  life  with  theirs.  Puny  and 
sorry  as  those  lives  were,  they  much  resembled  his  own. 

His  clacker  he  had  by  this  time  thrown  away  from  him, 
as  being  a  mean  and  sordid  instrument,  offensive  both  to 
the  birds  and  to  himself  as  their  friend.  All  at  once 
he  became  conscious  of  a  smart  blow  upon  his  buttocks, 
followed  by  a  loud  clack,  which  announced  to  his  sur- 
prised senses  that  the  clacker  had  been  the  instrument  of 
offence  used.  The  birds  and  jude  started  up  simulta- 
neously, and  the  dazed  eyes  of  the  latter  beheld  the  farm- 
er in  person,  the  great  Troutham  himself,  his  red  face 
glaring  down  upon  Jude's  cowering  frame,  the  clacker 
swinging  in  his  hand. 

"  So  it's  '  Eat,  my  dear  birdies,'  is  it,  young  man  .'  '  Eat, 
dear  birdies,'  indeed  !  I'll  tickle  your  breeches,  and  see 
if  you  say,  'Eat,  dear  birdies,'  again  in  a  hurry!  And 
you've  been  idling  at  the  school-master's  too,  instead  of 
coming  here,  ha'n't  ye,  hey.'  That's  how  you  earn  your 
sixpence  a  day  for  keeping  the  rooks  of!  my  corn  !" 

Whilst  saluting  Jude's  ears  with  this  impassioned  rhet- 
oric, Troutham  had  seized  his  left  hand  with  his  own  left, 
and  swinging  his  slim  fraaij  round  him  at  arm's-length. 


AT    MARVGREEN 


Q 


again  struck  Jude  on  the  hind  parts  with  the  flat  side  of 
Jude's  own  rattle,  till  the  field  echoed  with  the  blows, 
which  were  delivered  once  or  twice  at  each  revolution. 

"Don't  'ee,  sir — please  don't  'ee  !"  cried  the  whirling 
child,  as  helpless  under  the  centrifugal  tendency  of  his 
person  as  a  hooked  fish  swinging  to  land,  and  beholding 
the  hill,  the  rick,  the  plantation,  the  path,  and  the  rooks 
going  round  and  round  him  in  an  amazing  circular  race. 
"  I — I — sir — only  meant  that — there  was  a  good  crop  in 
the  ground — 1  saw  'em  sow  it — and  the  rooks  could  have 
a  little  bit  for  dinner — and  you  wouldn't  miss  it,  sir — and 
Mr.  Phillotson  said  I  was  to  be  kind  to  'em — oh,  oh,  oh  !" 

This  truthful  explanation  seemed  to  exasperate  the 
farmer  even  more  than  if  Jude  had  stoutly  denied  saying 
anything  at  all ;  and  he  still  smacked  the  whirling  urchin, 
the  clacks  of  the  instrument  continuing  to  resound  all 
across  the  field,  and  as  far  as  the  ears  of  distant  work- 
ers— who  gathered  thereupon  that  Jude  was  pursuing  his 
business  of  clacking  with  great  assiduity — and  echoing 
from  the  brand-new  church  tower  just  behind  the  mist, 
towards  the  building  of  which  structure  the  farmer  had 
largely  subscribed,  to  testify  his  love  for  God  and  man. 

Presently  Troutham  grew  tired  of  his  punitive  task,  and 
depositing  the  quivering  boy  on  his  legs,  took  a  sixpence 
from  his  pocket  and  gave  it  him  in  payment  for  his 
day's  work,  telling  him  to  go  home  and  never  let  him  sec 
him  in  one  of  those  fields  again. 

Jude  leaped  out  of  arm's  reach  and  walked  along  the 
trackway  weeping — not  from  the  pain,  though  that  was 
keen  enough  ;  not  from  the  perception  of  the  flaw  in  the 
terrestrial  scheme,  by  which  what  was  good  for  God's  birds 
was  bad  for  God's  gardener  ;  but  with  the  awful  sense 
that  he  had  wholly  disgraced  himself  before  he  had  been 
a  year  in  the  parish,  and  hence  might  be  a  burden  to  his 
great-aunt  for  life. 

With  this  shadow  on  his  mind  he  did  not  care  to  show 
himself  in  the  village,  and  went  homeward  by  a  round- 


■J2\  JUDE   THE   OBSCURE 


(^ 


about  track  behind  a  high  hedge  and  across  a  pasture. 
Here  he  beheld  scores  of  coupled  earthworms  lying  half 
their  length  on  the  surface  of  the  damp  ground,  as  they 
always  did  in  such  weather  at  that  time  of  the  year.  It 
was  impossible  to  advance  in  regular  steps  without  crush- 
ing some  of  them  at  each  tread. 

Though  Farmer  Troutham  had  just  hurt  him,  he  was  a 
boy  who  could  not  himself  bear  to  hurt  anything.  He 
had  never  brought  home  a  nest  of  young  birds  without 
lying  awake  in  misery  half  the  night  after,  and  often  rein- 
stating them  and  the  nest  in  their  original  place  the  next 
morning.  He  could  scarcely  bear  to  see  trees  cut  down 
or  lopped,  from  a  fancy  that  it  hurt  them  ;  and  late  prun- 
ing, when  the  sap  was  up  and  the  tree  bled  profusely,  had 
been  a  positive  grief  to  him  in  his  infancy.  This  weak- 
ness of  character,  as  it  may  be  called,  suggested  that  he 
was  the  sort  of  man  who  was  born  to  ache  a  good  deal 
before  the  fall  of  the  curtain  upon  his  unnecessary  life 
should  signify  that  all  was  well  with  him  again.  He 
carefully  picked  his  way  on  tiptoe  among  the  earthworms 
without  killing  a  single  one. 

On  entering  the  cottage  he  found  his  aunt  selling  a 
penny  loaf  to  a  little  girl,  and  when  the  customer  was 
gone  she  said,  "  Well,  how  do  you  come  to  be  back  here 
in  the  middle  of  the  morning  like  this.''" 

"  I'm  turned  away." 

"What  .5" 

"  Mr.  Troutham  have  turned  me  away  because  I  let  the 
rooks  have  a  few  peckings  of  corn.  And  there's  my 
wages — the  last  I  shall  ever  hae  !" 

He  threw  the  sixpence  tragically  on  the  table. 

"Ah  !"  said  his  aunt,  suspending  her  breath.  And  she 
opened  upon  him  a  lecture  on  how  she  would  now  have 
him  all  the  spring  upon  her  hands  doing  nothing.  "  If 
you  can't  skeer  birds,  what  can  ye  do.'  There!  don't  ye 
look  so  deedy  !  Farmer  Troutham  is  not  so  much  better 
than  myself,  come  to  that.      But  'tis  as  Job  said,*  Now 


**^  AT    MARYGREEN  1 3 

they  that  are  younger  than  I  have  me  in  derision,  whose 
fathers  I  would  have  disdained  to  have  set  with  the  dogs 
of  my  flock.'  His  father  was  my  father's  journeyman, 
anyhow,  and  I  must  have  been  a  fool  to  let  'ee  go  to  work 
for  'n,  which  I  shouldn't  ha'  done  but  to  keep  'ee  out  of 
mischty." 

More  angry  with  Jude  for  demeaning  her  by  coming 
there  than  for  dereliction  of  duty,  she  rated  him  primarily 
from  that  point  of  view,  and  only  secondarily  from  a  mor- 
al one. 

"  Not  that  you  should  have  let  the  birds  eat  what  Farm- 
er Troutham  planted.  Of  course  you  was  wrong  in  that. 
iude,  Jude,  why  didstn't  go  off  with  that  school-master 
of  thine  to  Christminster  or  somewhere.'  But,  oh  no — 
poor  or'nary  child — there  never  was  any  sprawl  on  thy 
side  of  the  family,  and  never  will  be  !" 

"Where  is  this  beautiful  city  aunt — this  place  where 
Mr.  Phillotson  is  gone  to  .''"  asked  the  bo3^  after  medita- 
ting in  silence. 

"Lord!  you  ought  to  know  where  the  city  of  Christ- 
minster is.  Near  a  score  of  miles  from  here.  It  is  a 
place  much  too  good  for  you  ever  to  have  much  to  do 
with,  poor  boy,  I'm  a-thinking." 

"  And  will  Mr.  Phillotson  always  be  there  ?" 

"  How  can  I  tell  ?" 

"  Couldn't  I  go  to  see  him  ?" 

"Lord,  no!  You  didn't  grow  up  hereabout,  or  you 
wouldn't  ask  such  as  that.  We've  never  had  anything 
to  do  with  folk  in  Christminster,  nor  folk  in  Christmin- 
ster with  we." 

Jude  went  out,  and,  feeling  more  than  ever  his  exist- 
ence to  be  an  undemanded  one,  he  lay  down  upon  his 
back  on  a  heap  of  litter  near  the  pig-sty.  The  fog  had 
by  this  time  become  more  translucent,  and  the  position 
of  the  sun  could  be  seen  through  it.  He  pulled  his  straw 
hat  over  his  face,  and  peered  through  the  interstices  of 
the  plaiting  at  the  white  brightness,  vaguely  reflecting. 


JUDE  THE  OBSCURE 

Growing  up  brought  responsibilities,  he  found.  Events 
did  not  rhyme  quite  as  he  had  thought.  Nature's  logic 
was  too  horrid  for  him  to  care  for.  That  mercy  towards 
one  set  of  creatures  was  cruelty  towards  another  sickened 
his  sense  of  harmony.]  As  you  got  older,  and  felt  your- 
self to  be  at  the  centre  of  your  time,  and  not  at  a  point 
in  its  circumference,  as  you  had  felt  when  you  were  little, 
you  were  seized  with  a  sort  of  shuddering,  he  perceived. 
All  around  you  there  seemed  to  be  something  glaring, 
garish,  rattling,  and  the  noises  and  glares  hit  upon  the 
little  cell  called  your  life,  and  shook  it,  and  scorched  it. 

If  he  could  only  prevent  himself  growing  up  !  He  did 
not  want  to  be  a  man. 

Then,  like  the  natural  boy,  he  forgot  his  despondency, 
and  sprang  up.  During  the  remainder  of  the  morning 
he  helped  his  aunt,  and  in  the  afternoon,  when  there  was 
nothing  more  to  be  done,  he  went  into  the  village.  Here 
he  asked  a  man  whereabouts  Christminster  lay. 

"  Christminster  ?  Oh,  well,  out  by  there  yonder ;  though 
I've  never  bin  there  —  not  I.  I've  never  had  any  busi- 
ness at  such  a  place." 

The  man  pointed  northeastward,  in  the  very  direction 
where  lay  that  field  in  which  Jude  had  so  disgraced  him- 
self. There  was  something  unpleasant  about  the  coinci- 
dence for  the  moment,  but  the  fearsomeness  of  this  fact 
rather  increased  his  curiosity  about  the  city.  The  farmer 
had  said  he  was  never  to  be  seen  in  that  field  again  ;  yet 
Christminster  lay  across  it,  and  the  path  was  a  public 
one.  So,  stealing  out  of  the  hamlet,  he  descended  into 
the  same  hollow  which  had  witnessed  his  punishment  in 
the  morning,  never  swerving  an  inch  from  the  path,  and 
climbing  up  the  long  and  tedious  ascent  on  the  other 
side,  till  the  track  joined  the  highway  by  a  little  clump 
of  trees.  Here  the  ploughed  land  ended,  and  all  before 
him  was  bleak  open  down. 


Ill 

Not  a  soul  was  visible  on  the  hedgeless  highway,  or  on 
either  side  of  it,  and  the  white  road  seemed  to  ascend 
and  diminish  till  it  joined  the  sky.  At  the  very  top  it 
was  crossed  at  right  angles  by  a  green  "  ridgeway  " — the 
Icknield  Street  and  original  Roman  road  through  the  dis- 
trict. This  ancient  track  ran  east  and  west  for  many 
miles,  and  down  almost  to  within  living  memory  had 
been  used  for  driving  flocks  and  herds  to  fairs  and  mar- 
kets.    But  it  was  now  neglected  and  overgrown. 

The  boy  had  never  before  strayed  so  far  north  as  this 
from  the  nestling  hamlet  in  which  he  had  been  deposited 
by  the  carrier  from  a  railwaj^-station  southward,  one  daric 
evening  some  few  months  earlier,  and  till  now  he  had 
had  no  suspicion  that  such  a  wide,  fiat,  low-lying  country 
lay  so  near  at  hand,  under  the  very  verge  of  his  upland 
world.  The  whole  northern  semicircle  between  east  and 
west,  to  a  distance  of  forty  or  fifty  miles,  spread  itself 
before  him  ;  a  l^lucr,  moister  atmosphere,  evidently,  than 
that  he  breathed  up  here. 

Not  far  from  the  road  stood  a  weather-beaten  old  barn 
of  reddish -gray  brick  and  tile.  It  was  known  as  the 
Brown  House  by  the  people  of  the  locality.  He  was 
about  to  pass  it,  when  he  perceived  a  ladder  against  the 
eaves  ;  and  the  reflection  that  the  higher  he  got  the  fur- 
ther he  could  see  led  Jude  to  stand  and  regard  it.  On 
the  slope  of  the  roof  two  men  were  repairing  the  til- 
ing. He  turned  into  the  ridgeway  and  drew  towards  the 
barn. 

When  he  had  wistfully  watched  the  workmen  for  some 


l6  JUDE  THE  OBSCURE 

time  he  took  courage,  and  ascended  the  ladder  till  he 
stood  beside  them. 

"  Well,  my  lad,  and  what  may  you  want  up  here  ?" 

"  I  wanted  to  know  where  the  city  of  Christminster  is, 
if  you  please." 

"  Christminster  is  out  across  there,  by  that  clump.  You 
can  see  it — at  least  you  can  on  a  clear  day.  Ah,  no,  you 
can't  now." 

The  other  tiler,  glad  of  any  kind  of  diversion  from  the 
monotony  of  his  labor,  had  also  turned  to  look  towards 
the  quarter  designated.  "  You  can't  often  see  it  in  weath- 
er like  this,"  he  said.  "  The  time  I've  noticed  it  is  when 
the  sun  is  going  down  in  a  blaze  of  flame,  and  it  looks 
like — I  don't  know  what." 

"  The  heavenly  Jerusalem,"  suggested  the  serious  ur- 
chin. 

"  Ay — though  I  should  never  ha*  thought  of  it  myself. 
.  .  .  But  I  can't  see  no  Christminster  to-day." 

The  boy  strained  his  eyes  also;  yet  neither  could  he 
see  the  far-ofi  city.  He  descended  from  the  barn,  and, 
abandoning  Christminster  with  the  versatility  of  his  age, 
he  walked  along  the  ridge-track,  looking  for  any  natural 
objects  of  interest  that  might  lie  in  the  banks  thereabout. 
■When  he  repassed  the  barn  to  go  back  to  Marygreen  he 
observed  that  the  ladder  was  still  in  its  place,  but  that  the 
men  had  finished  their  day's  work  and  gone  away. 

It  was  waning  towards  evening;  there  was  still  a  faint 
mist,  but  it  had  cleared  a  little  except  in  the  dampertracts 
of  subjacent  country  and  along  the  river-courses.  He 
thought  again  of  Christminster,  and  wished,  since  he  had 
come  two  or  three  miles  from  his  aunt's  house  on  pur- 
pose, that  he  could  have  seen  for  once  this  attractive  city 
of  which  he  had  been  told.  But  even  if  he  waited  here 
it  was  hardly  likely  that  the  air  would  clear  before  night. 
Yet  he  was  loath  to  leave  the  spot,  for  the  northern  ex- 
panse became  lost  to  view  on  retreating  towards  the  vil- 
lage only  a  few  hundred  yards. 


AT   MARYGREEN  IJ 

He  ascended  the  ladder  to  have  one  more  look  at  the 
point  the  men  had  designated,  and  perched  himself  on 
the  highest  rung,  overlying  the  tiles.  He  might  not  be 
able  to  come  so  far  as  this  for  many  days.  Perhaps  if  he 
prayed,  the  wish  to  see  Christminster  might  be  forward- 
ed. People  said  that  if  you  prayed  things  sometimes 
came  to  you,  even  though  they  sometimes  did  not.  He 
had  read  in  a  tract  that  a  man  who  had  begun  to  build  a 
church,  and  had  no  money  to  finish  it,  knelt  down  and 
prayed,  and  the  money  came  in  by  the  next  post.  An- 
other man  tried  the  same  experiment,  and  the  money  did 
«ot  come  ;  but  he  found  afterwards  that  the  breeches  he 
knelt  in  were  made  by  a  wicked  Jew.  This  was  not  dis- 
couraging, and  turning  on  the  ladder  Jude  knelt  on  the 
third  rung,  where,  resting  against  those  above  it,  he  prayed 
that  the  mist  might  rise. 

He  then  seated  himself  again  and  waited.  In  the 
course  of  ten  or  fifteen  minutes  the  thinning  mist  dis- 
solved altogether  from  the  eastern  horizon,  as  it  had  al- 
ready done  elsewhere,  and  about  a  quarter  of  an  hour  be- 
fore the  time  of  sunset  the  westward  clouds  parted,  the 
sun's  position  being  partially  uncovered,  and  the  beams 
streaming  out  in  visible  lines  between  two  bars  of  slaty 
cloud.  The  boy  immediately  looked  back  in  the  old  di- 
rection. 

Some  way  within  the  limits  of  the  stretch  of  landscape 
points  of  light  like  the  topaz  gleamed.  The  air  in- 
creased in  transparency  with  the  lapse  of  minutes,  till 
the  topaz  points  showed  themselves  to  be  the  vanes,  win- 
dows, wet  roof  slates,  and  other  shining  spots  upon  the 
spires,  domes,  freestone-work,  and  varied  outlines  that 
were  faintly  revealed.  It  was  Christminster,  unquestion- 
ably; either  directly  seen,  or  miraged  in  the  peculiar  at- 
mosphere. 

The  spectator  gazed  on  and  on  till  the  windows  and 
vanes  lost  their  shine,  going  out  almost  suddenly  like  ex- 
tinguished  candles.      The  vague  city  became  veiled   in 


0 


JUDE  THE  OBSCURE 


mist.  Turning  to  the  west,  he  saw  that  the  sun  had  dis- 
appeared. The  foreground  of  the  scene  had  grown  fune- 
really dark,  and  near  objects  put  on  the  hues  and  shapes 
of  chimaeras. 

He  anxiously  descended  the  ladder  and  started  home- 
ward at  a  run,  trying  not  to  think  of  giants.  Heme  the 
Hunter,  Apollyon  lying  in  wait  for  Christian,  or  of  the 
captain  with  the  bleeding  hole  in  his  forehead,  and  the 
corpses  round  him  that  remutinied  every  night  on  board 
the  bewitched  ship.  He  knew  that  he  had  grown  out  of 
belief  in  these  horrors,  yet  he  was  glad  when  he  saw  the 
church  tower  and  the  lights  in  the  cottage  windows,  even, 
though  this  was  not  the  home  of  his  birth,  and  his  great- 
aunt  did  not  care  much  about  him. 

Inside  and  roundabout  that  old  woman's  "shop"  win- 
dow, with  its  twenty-four  little  panes  set  in  lead  work, 
the  glass  of  some  of  them  oxidized  with  age,  so  that  you 
could  hardly  see  the  poor  penny  articles  exhibited  with- 
in, and  forming  part  of  a  stock  which  a  strong  man  could 
have  carried,  Jude  had  his  outer  being  for  some  long  tide- 
^-  .^  less  time.  But  his  dreams  were  as  gigantic  as  his  sur- 
roundings were  small. 

Through  the  solid  barrier  of  cold  cretaceous  upland  to 
the  northward  he  was  always  beholding  a  gorgeous  city 
—the  fancied  place  he  had  likened  to  the  new  Jerusalem, 
though  there  was  perhaps  more  of  the  painter's  imagina- 
tion and  less  of  the  diamond  merchant's  in  his  dreams 
thereof  than  in  those  of  the  Apocalyptic  writer.  And 
the  city  acquired  a  tangibility,  a  permanence,  a  hold  on 
his  life,  mainly  from  the  one  nucleus  of  fact  that  the  man 
for  whose  knowledge  and  purposes  he  had  so  much  rev- 
erence was  actually  living  there;  not  only  so,  but  living 
among  the  more  thoughtful  and  mentally  shining  ones 
therein. 

In  sad  wet  seasons,  though  he  knew  it  must  rain  at 
Christminster  too,  he  could  hardly  believe  that  it  rained 


AT    MARYGREEN  I9 

SO  drearily  there.  Whenever  he  could  get  away  from  the 
confines  of  the  hamlet  for  an  hour  or  two,  which  was  not 
often,  he  would  steal  off  to  the  Brown  House  on  the  hill 
and  strain  his  eyes  persistently;  sometimes  to  be  reward- 
ed by  the  sight  of  a  dome  or  sfjire,  at  other  times  by  a  lit- 
tle smoke,  which  in  his  estimate  had  some  of  the  mysti- 
cism of  incense. 

Then  the  day  came  when  it  suddenly  occurred  to  him 
that  if  he  ascended  to  the  point  of  view  after  dark,  or 
possibly  went  a  mile  or  two  farther,  he  would  see  the 
night  lights  of  the  city.  It  would  be  necessary  to  come 
back  alone,  but  even  that  consideration  did  not  deter 
him,  for  he  could  throw  a  little  manliness  into  his  mood, 
no  doubt. 

The  project  was  duly  executed.  It  was  not  late  when 
he  arrived  at  the  place  of  outlook,  only  just  after  dusk  ; 
but  a  black  northeast  sky,  accompanied  by  a  wind  from 
the  same  quarter,  made  the  occasion  dark  enough.  He 
was  rewarded  ;  but  what  he  saw  was  not  the  lamps  in 
rows,  as  he  had  half  expected.  No  individual  light  was 
visible,  only  a  halo  or  glow -fog  overarching  the  place 
against  the  black  heavens  behind  it,  making  the  light  and 
the  city  seem  distant  but  a  mile  or  so. 

He  set  himself  to  wonder  on  the  exact  point   in  the 
glow  where  the  school-master  might  be — he  who  never 
communicated  with  anybody  at    Marygreen    now  ;    who 
was  as  if  dead  to  them  here.     In  the  glow  he  seemed  to      \ 
see  Phillotson  promenading  at  ease,  like  one  of  the  forms       * 
in  Nebuchadnezzar's  furnace. 

He  had  heard  that  breezes  travelled  at  the  rate  of  ten 
miles  an  hour,  and  the  fact  now  came  into  his  mind.  He 
parted  his  lips  as  he  faced  the  northeast,  and  drew  in  the 
wind  as  if  it  were  a  sweet  liquor. 

"  You,"  he  said,  addressing  the  breeze  caressingly,  "  were 
in  Christminster  city  between  one  and  two  hours  ago. 
floating  along  the  streets,  pulling  round  the  weather- 
cocks, touching  Mr.  Phillotson's  face,  being  breathed  by 


20  JUDE  THE  OBSCURE 

him,  and  now  you  be  here,  breathed  by  me — you,  the  very 
same." 

Suddenly  there  came  alonj^  this  wind  something  tow- 
ards him — a  message  from  the  place — from  some  soul  re- 
siding there,  it  seemed.  Surely  it  was  the  sound  of  bells, 
the  voice  of  the  city,  faint  and  musical,  calling  to  him, 
"  We  are  happy  here  !" 

He  had  become  entirely  lost  to  his  bodily  situation 
during  this  mental  leap,  and  only  got  b^ck  to  it  by  a 
rough  recalling,  A  few  yards  below  the  brow  of  the  hill 
on  which  he  paused  a  team  of  horses  made  its  appearance, 
having  reached  the  place  by  dint  of  half  an  hour's  ser- 
pentine progress  from  the  bottom  of  the  immense  de- 
clivity. They  had  a  load  of  coals  behind  them — a  fuel 
that  could  only  be  got  into  the  upland  by  this  particular 
route.  They  were  accompanied  by  a  carter,  a  second 
man,  and  a  boy,  who  now  kicked  a  large  stone  behind  one 
of  the  wheels,  and  allowed  the  panting  animals  to  have  a 
long  rest,  while  those  in  charge  took  a  flagon  off  the  load 
and  indulged  in  a  drink  round. 

They  were  elderly  men,  and  had  genial  voices.  Jude 
addressed  them,  inquiring  if  they  had  come  from  Christ- 
minster. 

"  Heaven  forbid,  with  this  load  !"  said  they. 

"The  place  I  mean  is  that  one  yonder."  He  was  get- 
ting so  romantically  attached  to  Christminster  that,  like 
a  young  lover  alluding  to  his  mistress,  he  felt  bashful  at 
mentioning  its  name  again.  He  pointed  to  the  light  in 
the  sky — hardly  perceptible  to  their  older  eyes. 

"  Yes.  There  do  seem  a  spot  a  bit  brighter  in  the  nor- 
east  than  elsewhere,  though  I  shouldn't  ha'  noticed  it  my- 
self, and  no  doubt  it  mcd  be  Christminster." 

Here  a  little  book  of  tales  which  Jude  had  tucked  up 
under  his  arm,  having  brought  them  to  read  on  his  way 
hither  before  it  grew  dark,  slipped  and  fell  into  the  road. 
The  carter  eyed  him  while  he  picked  it  up  and  straight- 
ened the  leaves. 


»-^  AT   MARYGREEN  21 

"  Ah,  young  man,"  he  observed,  "you'd  have  to  get  your 
head  screwed  on  t'other  way  before  you  could  read  what 
they  read  there." 

"Why?"  asked  the  boy. 

"  Oh,  they  never  look  at  anything  that  folks  like  we  can 
understand,"  the  carter  continued,  by  way  of  passing  the 
time.  "  On'y  foreign  tongues  used  before  the  Flood, 
when  no  two  families  spoke  alike.  They  read  that  sort 
of  thing  as  fast  as  a  night-hawk  will  whir.  'Tis  all  learn- 
ing there — nothing  but  learning,  except  religion.  And 
that's  learning,  too,  for  I  never  could  understand  it.  Yes, 
'tis  a  serious-minded  place.  Not  but  there's  wenches  in 
the  streets  o'  nights.  .  .  .  You  know,  I  suppose,  that  they 
raise  pa'sons  there  like  radishes  in  a  bed  ?  And  though 
it  do  take — how  many  years,  Bob  ? — fiv^e  years  to  turn  a 
lirruping  hobble  -  de  -  hoy  chap  into  a  solemn  preaching 
man  with  no  corrupt  passions,  they'll  do  it,  if  it  can  be 
done,  and  polish  un  off  like  the  workmen  they  be,  and 
turn  un  out  wi'  a  long  face,  and  a  long  black  coat  and 
waistcoat,  and  a  religious  collar  and  hat,  same  as  they 
used  to  wear  in  the  Scriptures,  so  that  his  own  mother 
wouldn't  know  un  sometimes.  .  .  .  There,  'tis  their  busi- 
ness, like  anybody  else's." 

"  But  how  should  you  know — " 

"Now  don't  you  interrupt,  my  boy.  Never  interrupt 
your  senyers.  Move  the  fore  boss  aside,  Bobby ;  here's 
som'at  coming.  .  .  .  You  must  mind  that  I  be  a-talk- 
ing  of  the  college  life.  'Em  lives  on  a  lofty  level ; 
there's  no  gainsaying  it,  though  I  myself  med  not  think 
much  of  'em.  As  we  be  here  in  our  bodies  on  this 
high  ground,  so  be  they  in  their  minds — noble-minded 
men  enough,  no  doubt  —  some  on 'em  —  able  to  earn 
hundreds  by  thinking  out  loud.  And  some  on  'em  be 
strong  young  fellows  that  can  earn  a'most  as  much  in 
silver  cups.  As  for  music,  there's  beautiful  music  ev- 
erywhere in  Christminster.  You  med  be  religious,  or 
you  med  not,  but  you  can't  help  striking  in  your  homely 


22  JUDE  THE  OBSCURE 

note  with  the  rest.  And  there's  a  street  in  the  place 
—  the  main  street— that  ha'n't  another  like  it  in  the 
world.  I  should  think  I  did  know  a  little  about  Christ- 
minster!" 

By  this  time  the  horses  had  recovered  breath  and 
bent  to  their  collars  again.  Jude,  throwing  a  last  ador- 
ing look  at  the  distant  halo,  turned  and  walked  beside 
his  remarkably  well-informed  friend,  who  had  no  ob- 
jection to  tell  him  as  they  moved  on  more  yet  of  the 
/^ity  —  its  towers  and  halls  and  churches.  The  wagon 
turned  into  a  cross-road,  whereupon  Jude  thanked  the  car- 
ter warmly  for  his  information,  and  said  he  only  wished 
he  could  talk  half  as  well  about  Christminster  as  he. 

"  Well,  'tis  oonly  what  has  come  in  my  way,"  said  the 
carter,  unboastfully.  "  I've  never  been  there,  no  more 
than  you;  but  I've  picked  up  the  knowledge  here  and 
there,  and  you  be  welcome  to  it.  A-getting  about  the 
world  as  I  do,  and  mixing  with  all  classes  of  society,  one 
can't  help  hearing  of  things.  A  friend  o'  mine,  that  used 
to  clane  the  boots  at  the  Crozier  Hotel  in  Christminster 
when  he  was  in  his  prime,  why,  I  knowed  un  as  well  as 
my  own  brother  in  his  later  years." 

Jude  continued  his  w-alk  homeward  alone,  pondering 
so  deeply  that  he  forgot  to  feel  timid.  He  suddenly 
grew  older.  It  had  been  the  yearning  of  his  heart  to  find 
something  to  anchor  on,  to  cling  to  —  for  some  place 
which  he  could  call  admirable.  Should  he  find  that  place 
in  this  city  if  he  could  get  there  ?  Would  it  be  a  spot  in 
which,  without  fear  of  farmers,  or  hinderance,  or  ridicule, 
he  could  watch  and  wait,  and  set  himself  to  some  mighty 
undertaking  like  the  men  of  old  of  whom  he  had  heard  ? 
As  the  halo  had  been  to  his  eyes  when  gazing  at  it  a 
quarter  of  an  hour  earlier,  so  was  the  spot  mentally  to 
him  as  he  pursued  his  dark  way. 

"  It  is  a  city  of  light,"  he  said  to  himself. 
"  The  tree  of  knowledge  grows  there,"  he  added,  a  few 
/     steps  farther  on. 


AT    MARYGREEN 


"  It   is  a  place  that  teachers  of  men  spring  from  and 
ro  to." 

"  It  is  what  you  may  call  a  castle,  manned  by  scholar- 
ship and  religion." 

After  this  figure   he  was   silent  a  long  while,  till   he 
idded, 
1  "  It  would  just  suit  me," 


IV 

Walking  somewhat  slowly,  by  reason  of  his  concentra- 
tion, the  boy — an  ancient  man  in  some  phases  of  thought, 
much  younger  than  his  years  in  others  —  was  overtaken 
by  a  light-footed  pedestrian,  whom,  notwithstanding  the 
gloom,  he  could  perceive  to  be  wearing  an  extraordinarily 
tall  hat,  a  swallow- tailed  coat,  and  a  watch-chain  that 
danced  madly  and  threw  around  scintillations  of  sky-light 
as  its  owner  swung  along  upon  a  pair  of  thin  legs  and 
noiseless  boots.  Jude,  beginning  to  feel  lonely,  endeav- 
ored to  keep  up  with  him. 

"  Well,  my  man  !  I'm  in  a  hurry,  so  you'll  have  to  walk 
pretty  fast  if  you  keep  alongside  of  me.  Do  you  know 
who  I  am  ?" 

"Yes,  I  think.     Physician  Vilbert.^" 

"Ah  —  I'm  known  everywhere,  I  see!  That  comes  of 
being  a  public  benefactor." 

Vilbert  was  an  itinerant  quack- doctor,  well  known  to 
the  rustic  population,  and  absolutely  unknown  to  anybody 
else,  as  he,  indeed,  took  care  to  be,  to  avoid  inconvenient 
investigations.  Cottagers  formed  his  only  patients,  and 
his  Wessex-wide  repute  was  among  them  alone.  His 
position  was  humbler  and  his  field  more  obscure  than 
those  of  the  quacks  with  capital  and  an  organized  system 
of  advertising.  He  was,  in  fact,  a  survival.  The  distances 
he  traversed  on  foot  were  enormous,  and  extended  nearly 
the  whole  length  and  breadth  of  Wessex.  Jude  had  one 
day  seen  him  selHng  a  pot  of  colored  lard  to  an  old  wom- 
an as  a  certain  cure  for  a  bad  leg,  the  woman  arranging 
to  pay  a  guinea,  in  instalments  of  a  shilling  a  fortnight, 


AT   MARYGREEN  2$ 

for  the  precious  salve,  which,  according  to  the  physician, 
could  only  be  obtained  from  a  particular  animal  which 
grazed  on  Mount  Sinai,  and  was  to  be  captured  only  at 
great  risk  to  life  and  limb.  Jude,  though  he  already  had 
his  doubts  about  this  gentleman's  medicines,  felt  him  to 
be  unquestionably  a  travelled  personage,  and  one  who 
might  be  a  trustworthy  source  of  information  on  matters 
not  strictly  professional. 

"  I  s'pose  you've  been  to  Christminster,  Physician  .''" 

"I  have  —  many  times,"  replied  the  long  thin  man. 
"  That's  one  of  my  centres." 

"  It's  a  wonderful  city  for  scholarship  and  religion  .-'" 

"  You'd  say  so,  my  boy,  if  you'd  seen  it.  Why,  the  very 
sons  of  the  old  women  who  do  the  washing  of  the  college 
can  talk  in  Latin — not  good  Latin,  that  I  admit,  as  a  critic : 
dog-Latin — cat-Latin,  as  we  used  to  call  it  in  my  under- 
graduate days." 

"And  Greek?" 

"  Well— that's  more  for  the  men  who  are  in  training  for 
bishops,  that  they  may  be  able  to  read  the  New  Testa- 
ment in  the  original." 

"  I  want  to  learn  Latin  and  Greek  myself." 

"A  lofty  desire.  You  must  get  a  grammar  of  each 
tongue." 

"  I  mean  to  go  to  Christminster  some  day." 

"  Whenever  you  do,  you  say  that  Physician  Vilbert  is 
the  only  proprietor  of  those  celebrated  pills  that  infallibly 
cure  all  disorders  of  the  alimentary  system,  as  well  as 
asthma  and  shortness  of  breath.  Two  and  threepence  a 
box — specially  licensed  by  the  government  stamp." 

"Can  you  get  me  the  grammars  if  I  promise  to  say  it 
hereabout  ?" 

"I'll  sell  you  mine  with  pleasure  —  those  I  used  as  a 
student." 

"  Oh,  thank  you,  sir  I"  said  Jude,  gratefully,  but  in  gasps, 
for  the  amazing  speed  of  the  physician's  walk  kept  him  in 
a  dog-trot  which  was  giving  him  a  stitch  in  the  side. 


26  JUDE   THE  OBSCURE 

"I  think  you'd  better  drop  behind,  my  young  man. 
Now  I'll  tell  you  what  I'll  do.  I'll  get  you  the  grammars, 
and  give  you  a  first  lesson,  if  you'll  remember,  at  every 
house  in  the  village,  to  recommend  Phj'sician  Vilbert's 
golden  ointment,  life-drops,  and  female  pills." 

"  Where  will  you  be  with  the  grammars  ?" 

"  I  shall  be  passing  here  this  day  fortnight  at  precisely 
this  hour  of  five -and -twenty  minutes  past  seven.  My 
movements  are  as  truly  timed  as  those  of  the  planets  in 
their  courses." 

"  Here  I'll  be  to  meet  you,"  said  Jude. 

"With  orders  for  my  medicines.''" 

"Yes,  Physician." 

Jude  then  dropped  behind,  waited  a  few  minutes  to  re- 
cover breath,  and  went  home  with  a  consciousness  of 
having  struck  a  blow  for  Christminster. 

Through  the  intervening  fortnight  he  ran  about  and 
smiled  outwardly  at  his  inward  thoughts,  as  if  they  were 
people  meeting  and  nodding  to  him  —  smiled  with  that 
singularly  beautiful  irradiation  which  is  seen  to  spread  on 
young  faces  at  the  inception  of  some  glorious  idea,  as  if  a 
supernatural  lamp  were  held  inside  their  transparent  nat- 
ures, giving  rise  to  the  flattering  fancy  that  heaven  lies 
about  them  then. 

He  honestly  performed  his  promise  to  the  man  of  many 
cures,  in  whom  he  now  sincerely  believed,  walking  miles 
hither  and  thither  among  the  surrounding  hamlets  as  the 
physician's  agent  in  advance.  On  the  evening  appointed 
he  stood  motionless  on  the  plateau,  at  the  place  where  he 
had  parted  from  Vilbert,  and  there  awaited  his  approach. 
The  road  physician  was  fairly  up  to  time  ;  but,  to  the  sur- 
prise of  Jude  on  striking  into  his  pace,  which  the  pedes- 
trian did  not  diminish  by  a  single  unit  of  force,  the  latter 
seemed  hardly  to  recognize  his  young  companion,  though 
with  the  lapse  of  the  fortnight  the  evenings  had  grown  light. 
Jude  thought  it  might  perhaps  be  owing  to  his  wearing 
another  hat,  and  he  saluted  the  physician  with  dignity. 


AT    MARVOREEN  TJ 

"  Well,  my  boy?", said  the  latter,  abstractedly. 

"  I've  come,"  said  Jude. 

"You?  who  are  you?  Oh  yes— to  be  sure  I  Got  any 
orders,  lad  ?" 

"Yes."  And  Jude  told  him  the  names  and  addresses 
of  the  cottagers  who  were  willing  to  test  the  virtues  of 
the  world-renowned  pills  and  salve.  The  quack  mentally 
registered  these  with  great  care. 

"And  the  Latin  and  Greek  grammars?"  Jude's  voice 
trembled  with  anxiety. 

"What  about  them  ?" 

"  You  were  to  bring  me  yours,  that  you  used  before  you 
took  your  degree." 

"Ah,  yes,  yes  !  Forgot  all  about  it — all !  So  many  lives 
depending  on  my  attention,  you  see,  my  man,  that  I  can't 
give  so  much  thought  as  I  would  like  to  other  things." 

Jude  controlled  himself  sufficiently  long  to  make  sure 
of  the  truth  ;  and  he  repeated,  in  a  voice  of  (S-vy  misery, 
"  You  haven't  brought  'em  !" 

"  No.  But  you  must  get  me  some  more  orders  from 
sick  people,  and  I'll  bring  the  grammars  next  time." 

Jude  dropped  behind.  He  was  an  unsophisticated  boy, 
but  the  gift  of  sudden  insight,  v.-hich  is  sometimes  vouch- 
safed to  children,  showed  him  all  at  once  what  shoddy 
humanity  the  quack  was  made  of.  There  was  to  be  no 
intellectual  light  from  this  source.  The  leaves  dropped 
from  his  imaginary  crown  of  laurel ;  he  turned  to  a  gate, 
leaned  against  it,  and  cried  bitterly. 

The  disappointment  was  followed  by  an  interval  of 
blankness.  He  might,  perhaps,  have  obtained  grammars 
from  Alfredston,  but  to  do  that  required  money,  and  a 
knowledge  of  what  books  to  order ;  and  though  physical- 
ly comfortable,  he  was  in  such  absolute  dependence  as  to 
be  without  a  farthing  of  his  own. 

At  this  date  Mr.  Phillotson  sent  for  his  pianoforte,  and 
it  gave  Jude  a  lead.  Why  should  he  not  write  to  the 
school-master,  and  ask  him  to  be  so  kind  as  to  get  him  the 


28  JUDE  THE  OBSCURE 

grammars  in  Christminster  ?  He  might  slip  a  letter  in- 
side the  case  of  the  instrument,  and  it  would  be  sure  to 
reach  the  desired  eyes.  Why  not  ask  him  to  send  any  old 
second-hand  copies,  which  would  have  the  charm  of  be- 
ing mellowed  by  the  university  atmosphere? 

To  tell  his  aunt  of  his  intention  would  be  to  defeat  it. 
It  was  necessary  to  act  alone. 

After  a  further  consideration  of  a  few  days  he  did  act, 
and  on  the  day  of  the  piano's  departure,  which  happened 
to  be  his  next  birthday,  clandestinely  placed  the  letter  in- 
side the  packing-case,  directed  to  his  much -admired 
friend,  being  afraid  to  reveal  the  operation  to  his  aunt 
Drusilla,  lest  she  should  discover  his  motive,  and  compel 
him  to  abandon  his  scheme. 

The  piano  was  despatched,  and  Jude  waited  days  and 
weeks,  calling  every  morning  at  the  cottage  post-office 
before  his  great-aunt  was  stirring.  At  last  a  packet  did 
indeed  arrive  at  the  village,  and  he  saw  from  the  ends  of 
it  that  it  contained  two  thin  books.  He  took  it  away  into 
a  lonely  place,  and  sat  down  on  a  felled  elm  to  open  it. 

Ever  since  his  first  ecstasy  or  vision  of  Christminster 
and  its  possibilities,  Jude  had  meditated  much  and  curi- 
ously on  the  probable  sort  of  process  that  was  involved  in 
turning  the  expressions  of  one  language  into  those  of  an- 
other. He  concluded  that  a  grammar  of  the  required 
tongue  would  contain,  primarily,  a  rule,  prescription,  or 
clew  of  the  nature  of  a  secret  cipher,  which,  once  known, 
would  enable  him,  by  merely  applying  it,  to  change  at  will 
all  words  of  his  own  speech  into  those  of  the  foreign  one. 
His  childish  idea  was,  in  fact,  a  pushing  to  the  extremity 
of  mathematical  precision  what  is  everywhere  known  as 
Grimm's  Law — an  aggrandizement  of  rough  rules  to  ideal 
completeness.  Thus  he  assumed  that  the  words  of  the 
required  language  were  always  to  be  found  somewhere 
latent  in  the  words  of  the  given  language  by  those  who 
had  the  art  to  uncover  them,  such  art  being  furnished  by 
the  books  aforesaid. 


AT    MARYGREEN  29 

When,  therefore,  having  noted  that  the  packet  bore  the 
postmark  of  Christminster,  he  cut  the  string,  opened  the 
volumes,  and  turned  to  the  Latin  grammar,  which  chanced 
to  come  uppermost,  he  could  scarcely  believe  his  eyes. 

The  book  was  an  old  one — thirty  years  old,  soiled,  scrib- 
bled wantonly  over  with  a  strange  name  in  every  variety 
of  enmity  to  the  letter-press,  and  marked  at  random  with 
dates  twenty  years  earlier  than  his  own  day.  But  this 
was  not  the  cause  of  Jude's  amazement.  He  learned  for 
the  first  time  that  there  was  no  law  of  transmutation,  as 
in  his  innocence  he  had  supposed  (there  was,  in  some  de- 
gree, but  the  grammarian  did  not  recognize  it),  but  that 
every  word  in  both  Latin  and  Greek  was  to  be  individual- 
ly committed  to  memory  at  the  cost  of  years  of  plodding. 

Jude  flung  down  the  books,  lay  backward  along  the 
broad  trunk  of  the  elm,  and  was  an  utterly  miserable  boy 
for  the  space  of  a  quarter  of  an  hour.  As  he  had  often 
done  before,  he  pulled  his  hat  over  his  face  and  watched 
the  sun  peering  insidiously  at  him  through  the  interstices 
of  the  straw.  This  was  Latin  and  Greek,  then,  was  it,  this 
grand  delusion  '  The  charm  he  had  supposed  in  store  for 
him  was  really  a  labor  like  that  of  Israel  in  Egypt. 

What  brains  tliey  must  have  in  Christminster  and  the 
great  schools,  he  presently  thought,  to  learn  words  one  by 
one  up  to  tens  of  thousands  !  There  were  no  brains  in 
his  head  equal  to  this  business;  and  as  the  little  sun-rays 
continued  to  stream  in  through  his  hat  at  him,  he  wished 
he  had  never  seen  a  book,  that  he  might  never  see  an- 
other, that  he  had  never  been  born. 

Somebody  might  have  come  along  that  way  who  would 
hai'_e  asked  lumjhistroublc,  and  might  have  cheered  him 
by  saymg^Uiat  his  notions  were  further  advanced  than 
those  of  his  grammarian.  But  nobody  did  come,  because 
nobody  does;  and  under  the  crushing  recognition  of  his 
gigantic  error  Jude  continued  to  wish  himself  out  of  the 
world. 


V 

During  the  three  or  four  succeeding  years  a  quaint 
and  singular  vehicle  might  have  been  discerned  moving 
along  the  lanes  and  by-roads  near  Marygreen,  driven  in 
a  quaint  and  singular  way. 

In  the  course  of  a  month  or  two  after  the  receipt  of  the 
books,  Jude  had  grown  callous  to  the  shabby  trick  played 
him  by  the  dead  languages.  In  fact,  his  disappointment 
at  the  nature  of  those  tongues  had,  after  a  while,  been  the 
means  of  still  further  glorifying  the  erudition  of  Christ- 
minster.  To  acquire  languages,  departed  or  living,  in 
spite  of  such  obstinacies  as  he  now  knew  them  inherently 
to  possess,  was  a  herculean  performance  which  gradually 
led  him  on  to  a  greater  interest  in  it  than  in  the  presup- 
posed patent  process.  The  mountain-weight  of  material 
under  which  the  ideas  lay  in  those  dusty  volumes  called 
the  classics  piqued  him  into  a  dogged,  mouselike  subtlety 
of  attempt  to  move  it  piecemeal. 

He  had  endeavored  to  make  his  presence  tolerable  to 
his  crusty  maiden  aunt  by  assisting  her  to  the  best  of  his 
ability,  and  the  business  of  the  little  cottage  bakery  had 
grown  in  consequence.  An  aged  horse  with  a  hanging 
head  had  been  purchased  for  eight  pounds  at  a  sale,  a 
creaking  cart  with  a  whity-brown  tilt  obtained  for  a  few 
pounds  more,  and  in  this  turnout  it  became  Jude's  busi- 
ness thrice  a  week  to  carry  loaves  of  bread  to  the  villagers 
and  solitary  cotters  immediately  around  Marygreen. 

The  singularity  aforesaid  lay,  after  all,  less  in  the  con- 
veyance itself  than  in  Jude's  manner  of  conducting  it 
along  its  route.     Its  interior  was  the  scene  of  most  of 


AT   MARYGREEN 


Q 


Jude's  education  by  "  private  study."  As  soon  as  the 
horse  had  learned  the  road  and  the  houses  at  which  he  was 
to  pause  a  while,  the  boy,  seated  in  front,  would  slip  the 
reins  over  his  arm,  ingeniously  fix  open,  by  means  of  a 
strap  attached  to  the  tilt,  the  volume  he  was  reading, 
spread  the  dictionary  on  his  knees,  and  plunge  into  the 
simpler  passages  from  Caesar,  Virgil,  or  Horace,  as  the 
case  might  be,  in  his  purblind  stumbling  way,  and  with 
an  expenditure  of  labor  that  would  have  made  a  tender- 
hearted pedagogue  shed  tears ;  yet  somehow  getting  at 
the  meaning  of  what  he  read,  and  divining  rather  than 
beholding  the  spirit  of  the  original,  which  often  to  his 
mind  was  something  else  than  that  which  he  was  taught 
to  look  for. 

The  only  copies  he  had  been  able  to  lay  hands  on  were 
old  Delphine  editions,  because  they  were  superseded,  and 
therefore  cheap.  But,  bad  for  idle  school-boys,  it  did  so 
happen  that  they  were  passably  good  for  him.  The  ham- 
pered and  lonely  itinerant  conscientiously  covered  up  the 
marginal  readings,  and  used  them  merely  on  points  of 
construction,  as  he  would  have  used  a  comrade  or  tutor 
who  should  have  happened  to  be  passing  by.  And  though 
Jude  may  have  had  little  chance  of  becoming  a  scholar 
by  these  rough-and-ready  means,  he  was  in  the  way  of 
getting  into  the  groove  he  wished  to  follow. 

While  he  was  busied  with  these  ancient  pages,  which 
had  already  been  thumbed  by  hands  possibly  in  the  grave, 
digging  out  the  thoughts  of  these  minds,  so  remote,  yet 
so  near,  the  bony  old  horse  pursued  his  rounds,  and  Jude 
would  be  aroused  from  the  woes  of  Dido  by  the  stoppage 
of  his  cart  and  the  voice  of  some  old  woman  crying,  "  Two 
to-day,  baker,  and  I  return  this  stale  one." 

He  was  frequently  met  in  the  lanes  by  pedestrians  and 
others  without  his  seeing  them,  and  by  degrees  the  people     /^ 
of  the  neighborhood  began  to  talk  about  his  method  ot    xi_ 
combining  work  and  play  (such  they  considered  liis  read- 
ing to  be),  which,  though  probably  convenient  enough  to 


32  JUDE   THE    OBSCURE 

himself,  was  not  altogether  a  safe  proceeding  for  other 
travellers  along  the  same  roads.  There  were  murmurs. 
Then  a  private  resident  of  an  adjoining  place  informed 
the  local  policeman  that  the  baker's  boy  should  not  be  al- 
lowed to  read  while  driving,  and  insisted  that  it  was  the 
constable's  duty  to  catch  him  in  the  act,  and  take  him  to 
the  police  court  at  Alfredston,  and  get  him  fined  for  dan- 
gerous practices  on  the  highway.  The  policeman  there- 
upon lay  in  wait  for  Jude,  and  one  day  accosted  him  and 
cautioned  him. 

As  Jude  had  to  get  up  at  three  o'clock  in  the  morning 
to  heat  the  oven,  and  mix  and  set  in  the  bread  that  he 
distributed  later  in  the  day,  he  was  obliged  to  go  to  bed 
at  night  immediately  after  laying  the  sponge;  so  that  if 
he  could  not  read  his  classics  on  the  highways,  he  could 
hardly  study  at  all.  The  only  thing  to  be  done  was,  there- 
fore, to  keep  a  sharp  eye  ahead  and  around  him  as  well 
as  he  could  in  the  circumstances,  and  slip  away  his  books 
as  soon  as  anybody  loomed  in  the  distance,  the  policeman 
in  particular.  To  do  that  official  justice,  he  did  not  put 
himself  much  in  the  way  of  Jude's  bread-cart,  considering 
that  in  such  a  lonely  district  the  chief  danger  was  to  Jude 
himself,  and  often  on  seeing  the  white  tilt  over  the  hedges 
he  would  move  in  another  direction. 

On  a  day  when  Fawley  was  getting  quite  advanced,  be- 
ing now  about  sixteen,  and  had  been  stumbling  througli 
the  "  Carmen  Saeculare,"  on  his  way  home  he  found  him- 
self to  be  passing  over  the  high  edge  of  the  plateau  by 
the  Brown  House.  The  light  had  changed,  and  it  was 
the  sense  of  this  which  had  caused  him  to  look  up.  The 
sun  was  going  down,  and  the  full  moon  was  rising  simul- 
taneously behind  the  woods  in  the  opposite  quarter.  His 
mind  had  become  so  impregnated  with  the  poem  that,  in 
a  moment  of  the  same  impulsive  emotion  which  years  be- 
fore had  caused  him  to  kneel  on  the  ladder,  he  stopped 
the  horse,  alighted,  and  glancing  round  to  see  that  nobody 
was  in  sight,  knelt  down  on  the  road-side  bank  with  open 


AT   MARYGREEN 


33 


book.  He  turned  first  to  the  shiny  goddess,  who  seemed 
to  look  so  softly  and  critically  at  his  doings,  then  to  the 
disappearing  luminary  on  the  other  hand,  as  he  began  : 

"  Phoebe,  silvarumque  potens  Diana  !" 


The  horse  stood  still  till  he  had  finished  the  hymn, 
which  Jude  repeated  under  the  sway  of  a  polytheistic 
fancy  that  he  would  never  have  thought  of  humoring  in 
broad  daylight. 

Reaching  home,  he  mused  over  his  curious  supersti- 
tion, innate  or  acquired,  in  doing  this,  and  the  strange 
forgetfulness  which  had  led  to  such  a  lapse  from  common- 
sense  and  custom  in  one  who  wished,  next  to  being  a 
scholar,  to  be  a  Christian  divine.  It  had  all  come  of 
reading  heathen  works  exclusively.  The  more  he  thought 
of  it,  the  more  convinced  he  was  of  his  inconsistency.  He 
began  to  wonder  whether  he  could  be  reading  quite  the 
right  books  for  his  object  in  life.  Certainly  there  seemed 
little  harmony  between  this  pagan  literature  and  the 
mediaeval  colleges  at  Christminster,  that  ecclesiastical  ro- 
mance in  stone. 

Ultimately  he  decided  that  in  his  sheer  love  of  reading 
he  had  taken  up  a  wrong  emotion  for  a  Christian  young 
man.  He  had  dabbled  in  Homer,  but  had  never  yet 
v/orked  much  at  the  New  Testament  in  the  Greek,  though 
he  possessed  a  copy,  obtained  by  post  from  a  second-hand 
bookseller.  He  abandoned  the  now  familiar  Ionic  for  a 
new  dialect,  and  for  a  long  time  onward  limited  his  read- 
ing almost  entirely  to  the  Gospels  and  Epistles  in  Gries- 
bach's  text.  Moreover,  on  going  into  Alfredston  one  day, 
he  was  introduced  to  patristic  literature  by  finding  at  the 
bookseller's  some  volumes  of  the  Fathers  which  had  been 
left  behind  by  an  insolvent  clergyman  of  the  neighbor- 
Iiood. 

As  another  outcome  of  this  change  of  groove,  he  vis- 
3 


34  JUDE  THE   OBSCURE 

ited  on  Sundays  all  the  churches  within  a  walk,  and 
deciphered  the  Latin  inscriptions  on  fifteenth  -  century 
brasses  and  tombs.  On  one  of  these  pilgrimages  he  met 
with  a  hunchbacked  old  woman  of  great  intelligence,  who 
read  everything  she  could  lay  her  hands  on,  and  she  told 
him  more  yet  of  the  romantic  charms  of  the  city  of  light 
and  lore.     Thither  he  resolved  as  firmly  as  ever  to  go. 

But  how  live  in  that  city.-*  At  present  he  had  no  in- 
come at  all.  He  had  no  trade  or  calling  of  any  dignity 
or  stability  whatever  on  which  he  could  subsist  while  car- 
rying out  an  intellectual  labor  which  might  spread  over 
many  years. 

What  was  most  required  by  citizens?  Food,  clothing, 
and  shelter.  An  income  from  any  work  in  preparing  the 
first  would  be  too  meagre;  for  making  the  second  he  felt 
a  distaste;  the  preparation  of  the  third  requisite  he  in- 
clined to.  They  built  in  a  city;  therefore  he  would  learn 
to  build.  He  thought  of  his  unknown  uncle,  his  cousin 
Susanna's  father,  an  ecclesiastical  worker  in  metal,  and 
somehow  mediaeval  art  in  any  material  was  a  trade  for 
which  he  had  rather  a  fancy.  He  could  not  go  far 
wrong  in  following  his  uncle's  footsteps,  and  engaging 
himself  a  while  with  the  carcasses  that  contained  the 
scholar  souls. 

As  a  preliminary  he  obtained  some  small  blocks  of 
freestone,  metal  not  being  available,  and  suspending  his 
studies  a  while,  occupied  his  spare  half-hours  in  copying 
the  heads  and  capitals  in  his  parish  church. 

There  was  a  stone-cutter  of  a  humble  kind  in  Alfred - 
ston,  and  as  soon  as  he  had  found  a  substitute  for  him- 
self in  his  aunt's  little  business,  he  oflered  his  services  to 
this  man  for  a  trifling  wage.  Here  Jude  had  the  oppor- 
tunity of  learning  at  least  the  rudiments  of  freestone- 
working.  Some  time  later  he  went  to  a  church  -  builder 
in  the  same  place,  and  under  the  architect's  direction  be- 
came handy  at  restoring  the  dilapidated  masonries  of 
several  village  churches  roundabout. 


AT    MARYGREEX  35 

Not  forgetting  that  he  was  only  following  up  this  han- 
dicraft as  a  prop  to  lean  on  while  he  prepared  those  great- 
er engines  which  he  flattered  himself  would  be  better  fit- 
ted for  him,  he  yet  was  interested  in  his  pursuit  on  its 
own  account.  He  now  had  lodgings  during  the  week  in 
the  little  town,  whence  he  returned  to  Marygreen  village 
every  Saturday  evening.  And  thus  he  reached  and  passed 
his  nineteenth  year. 


VI 

At  this  memorable  date  of  his  life  he  was,  one  Satur- 
day, returning  from  Alfredston  to  Marygreen  about  three 
o'clock  in  the  afternoon.  It  was  fine,  warm,  and  soft 
summer  weather,  and  he  walked  with  his  tools  at  his 
back,  his  little  chisels  clinking  faintly  against  the  larger 
ones  in  his  basket.  It  being  the  end  of  the  week  he  had 
left  work  early,  and  had  come  out  of  the  town  by  a  round- 
about route  which  he  did  not  usually  frequent,  having 
promised  to  call  at  a  flour-mill  in  that  direction  to  exe- 
cute a  commission  for  his  aunt. 

He  was  in  an  enthusiastic  mood.  He  seemed  to  see 
his  way  to  living  comfortably  in  Christminster  in  the 
course  of  a  year  or  two,  and  knocking  at  the  doors  of 
one  of  those  strongholds  of  learning  of  which  he  had 
dreamed  so  much.  He  might,  of  course,  have  gone  there 
now,  in  some  capacity  or  other,  but  he  preferred  to  enter 
the  city  with  a  little  more  assurance  as  to  means  than  he 
could  be  said  to  feel  at  present.  A  warm  self-content  suf- 
fused him  when  he  considered  what  he  had  already  done. 
Now  and  then  as  he  went  along  he  turned  to  face  the 
peeps  of  country  on  either  side  of  him.  But  he  hardly 
saw  them  ;  the  act  was  an  automatic  repetition  of  what 
he  had  been  accustomed  to  do  when  less  occupied  ;  and 
the  one  matter  which  really  engaged  him  was  the  mental 
estimate  of  his  progress  thus  far. 

"  I  have  acquired  quite  an  average  student's  power 
to  read  the  common  ancient  classics,  Latin  in  particu- 
lar." This  was  true,  Jude  possessing  a  facility  in  that 
language  which  enabled  him  with  great  ease  to  himself 


AT   MARYGREEN  37 

to  beguile  his  lonely  walks  by  imaginary  conversations 
therein. 

"  I  have  read  two  books  of  Homer,  besides  being  pretty 
familiar  with  passages  such  as  the  speech  of  Phoenix  in 
the  ninth  book,  the  fight  of  Hector  and  Ajax  in  the  four- 
teenth, the  appearance  of  Achilles  unarmed  and  his  heav- 
enly armor  in  the  eighteenth,  and  the  funeral  games  in 
the  twentj'-third.  I  have  also  done  some  Hesiod,  a  little 
scrap  of  Thucydides,  and  a  lot  of  the  Greek  Testament. 
...  I  wish  there  was  only  one  dialect,  all  the  same. 

"  I  have  done  some  mathematics,  including  the  first  six 
and  the  eleventh  and  twelfth  books  of  Euclid  ;  and  alge- 
bra as  far  as  simple  equations. 

"  I  know  something  of  the  Fathers,  and  something  of 
Roman  and  English  history. 

"These  things  are  only  a  beginning.  But  I  shall  not 
make  much  further  advance  here,  from  the  difficulty  of 
getting  books.  Hence  I  must  next  concentrate  all  my 
energies  on  settling  in  Christminster.  Once  there  I  shall 
so  advance,  with  the  assistance  I  shall  there  get,  that  my 
present  knowledge  will  appear  to  me  but  as  childish  ig- 
norance. I  must  save  money,  and  I  will ;  and  one  of 
those  colleges  shall  open  its  doors  to  me — shall  welcome 
whom  now  it  would  spurn,  if  I  wait  twenty  years  for  the 
welcome. 

"  I'll  be  D.D.  before  I  have  done  !" 

And  then  he  continued  to  dream,  and  thought  he  might 
become  even  a  bishop  by  leading  a  pure,  energetic,  wise, 
Christian  life.  And  what  an  example  he  would  set!  If 
his  income  were  ^5000  a  year,  he  would  give  away  ^4500 
in  one  form  and  another,  and  live  sumptuously  (for  him) 
on  the  remainder.  Well,  on  second  thoughts,  a  bishop 
was  absurd.  He  would  draw  the  line  at  an  archdeacon. 
Perhaps  a  man  could  be  as  good  and  as  learned  and  as 
useful  in  the  capacity  of  archdeacon  as  in  that  of  bishop. 
Yet  he  thought  of  the  bishop  again. 

"  Meanwhile   I    will   read,  as  soon  as    I  am  settled   in 


38  JUDE   THE   OBSCURE 

Cliristminster,  the  books  I  have  not  been  able  to  get  hold 
of  here  :  Livy,  Tacitus,  Herodotus,  ^schylus,  Sophocles, 
Aristophanes — " 

"  Ha,  ha,  ha  !  Hoity-toity!"  The  sounds  were  ex- 
pressed in  light  voices  on  the  other  side  of  the  hedge,  but 
he  did  not  notice  them.     His  thoughts  went  on  : 

"—Euripides,  Plato,  Aristotle,  Lucretius,  Epictetus, 
Seneca,  Antoninus.  Then  I  must  master  other  things:  the 
Fathers  thoroughly;  Bede  and  ecclesiastical  history  gen- 
erally ;  a  smattering  of  Hebrew — I  only  know  the  letters 
as  yet—" 

"  Hoity-toity  !" 

" — but  I  can  work  hard.  I  have  staying  power  in 
abundance,  thank  God  !  and  it  is  that  which  tells.  .  .  . 
Yes,  Christminster  shall  be  my  Alma  Mater;  and  I'll  be 
her  beloved  son,  in  whom  she  shall  be  well  pleased." 

In  his  deep  concentration  on  these  transactions  of  the 
future,  Jude's  walk  had  slackened,  and  he  was  now  stand- 
ing quite  still,  looking  at  the  ground  as  though  the  future 
were  thrown  thereon  by  a  magic  lantern.  On  a  sudden 
something  smacked  him  sharply  in  the  ear,  and  he  be- 
came aware  that  a  soft  cold  substance  had  been  flung  at 
him,  and  had  fallen  at  his  feet. 

A  glance  told  him  what  it  was  —  a  piece  of  flesh,  the 
characteristic  part  of  a  barrow  -  pig.  which  the  country- 
men used  for  greasing  their  boots,  as  it  was  useless  for 
any  other  purpose.  Pigs  were  rather  plentiful  hereabout, 
being  bred  and  fattened  in  large  numbers  in  certain  parts 
of  North  Wessex. 

On  the  other  side  of  the  hedge  was  a  stream,  whence, 
as  he  now  for  the  first  time  realized,  had  come  the  slight 
.sounds  of  voices  and  laughter  that  had  mingled  with  his 
dreams.  He  mounted  the  bank  and  looked  over  the 
fence.  On  the  farther  side  of  the  stream  stood  a  small 
homestead,  having  a  garden  and  pig -sties  attached,  in 
front  of  it,  beside  the  brook,  three  young  women  were 
kneeling,  with  buckets  and  platters  beside  them  contain- 


se 

PI 
B 

•< 
O 

c 

O 

:^ 
O 

s 

w 

2 


?: 

2 
R 

r 
5 


lOCi 


*re 


AT   MARYGREEN  39 

ing  heaps  of  pigs'  chitterlings,  which  they  were  washing 
in  the  running  water.  One  or  two  pairs  of  eyes  slyly 
glanced  up,  and  perceiving  that  his  attention  had  at  last 
been  attracted,  and  that  he  was  watching  them,  they 
braced  themselves  for  inspection  by  putting  their  mouths 
demurely  into  shape  and  recommencing  their  rinsing 
operations  with  assiduity. 

•'  Thank  you  !"  said  Jude,  severely. 

•'  I  didn't  throw  it,  I  tell  you  !"  asserted  one  girl  to 
her  neighbor,  as  if  unconscious  of  the  young  man's  pres- 
ence. 

"  Nor  I,"  the  second  answered. 

"  Oh,  Anny,  how  can  you  !"  said  the  third. 

"  If  I  had  thrown  anything  at  all,  it  shouldn't  have  been 
such  an  indecent  thing  as  that !" 

"Pooh!  I  don't  care  for  him!"  And  they  laughed 
and  continued  their  work,  without  looking  up,  still  osten- 
tatiously accusing  each  other. 

Jude  grew  sarcastic  as  he  wiped  the  spot  where  the 
clammy  flesh  had  struck  him. 

"  Yon  didn't  do  it — oh  no  !"  he  said  to  the  up-stream 
one  of  the  three. 

She  whom  he  addressed  was  a  fine  dark-eyed  girl,  not 
exactly  handsome,  but  capable  of  passing  as  such  at  a  little 
distance,  despite  some  coarseness  of  skin  and  fibre.  She 
had  a  round  and  prominent  bosom,  full  lips,  perfect  teeth, 
and  the  rich  complexion  of  a  Cochin  hen's  egg.  She  was 
a  complete  and  substantial  female  human  —  no  more,  no 
less  ;  and  Jude  was  almost  certain  that  to  her  was  attribu- 
table the  enterprise  of  throwing  the  lump  of  ofTal  at  him, 
the  bladder  from  which  she  had  obviously  just  cut  it  off 
lying  close  beside  her. 

"That  you'll  never  be  told,"  said  she,  deedily. 

"  Whoever  did  it  was  wasteful  of  other  people's  prop- 
erty." 

"  Oh,  that's  nothing.     The  pig  is  my  father's." 

"  But  you  want  it  back,  I  suppose  }" 


40  JUDE  THE  OBSCURE 

"  Oh  yes  ;  if  you  like  to  give  it  me." 

"  Shall  I  throw  it  across,  or  will  you  come  to  the  plank 
above  here  for  me  to  hand  it  to  you?" 

Perhaps  she  foresaw  an  opportunity  ;  for  somehow  or 
other  the  eyes  of  the  brown  girl  rested  in  his  own  when 
he  had  said  the  words,  and  there  was  a  momentary  flash 
of  intelligence,  a  dumb  announcement  of  affinity  in  posse, 
between  herself  and  him,  which,  so  far  as  Jude  Fawley 
was  concerned,  had  no  sort  of  premeditation  in  it.  She 
saw  that  he  had  singled  her  out  from  the  three,  as  a  wom- 
an is  singled  out  in  such  cases,  for  no  reasoned  purpose 
of  further  acquaintance,  but  in  commonplace  obedience 
to  conjunctive  orders  from  headquarters,  unconsciously 
received  by  unfortunate  men  when  the  last  intention  of 
their  lives  is  to  be  occupied  with  the  feminine. 

Springing  to  her  feet,  she  said  :  "  Don't  throw  it !  Give 
it  to  me." 

Jude  was  now  aware  that  the  intrinsic  value  of  the 
missile  had  nothing  to  do  with  her  request.  He  set  down 
his  basket  of  tools,  raked  out  with  his  stick  the  slip  of. 
flesh  from  the  ditch,  and  got  over  the  hedge.  They 
walked  in  parallel  lines,  one  on  each  bank  of  the  stream, 
towards  the  small  plank  bridge.  As  the  girl  drew  nearer 
to  it  she  gave,  without  Jude  perceiving  it,  an  adroit  little 
suck  to  the  interior  of  each  of  her  cheeks  in  succession, 
by  which  curious  and  original  manoeuvre  she  brought  as 
by  magic  upon  its  smooth  and  rotund  surface  a  perfect 
dimple,  which  she  was  able  to  retain  there  as  long  as  she 
continued  to  smile.  This  production  of  dimples  at  will 
was  a  not  unknown  operation,  which  many  attempted, 
but  only  a  few  succeeded  in  accomplishing. 

They  met  in  the  middle  of  the  plank,  and  Jude  held 
out  his  stick  with  the  fragment  of  pig  dangling  there- 
from, looking  elsewhere  the  while,  and  faintly  coloring. 

She,  too,  looked  in  another  direction,  and  took  the 
piece  as  though  ignorant  of  what  her  hand  was  doing. 
She  hung  it  temporarily  on  the   rail  of  the  bridge,  and 


AT  MARYGREEN 


g 


then,  by  a  species  of  mutual  curiosity,  they  both  turned, 
and  regarded  it. 

"  You  don't  think  I  threw  it  ?" 

"Oh  no!" 

"  It  belongs  to  father,  and  he  med  have  been  in  a  tak- 
ing if  he  had  wanted  it.     He  makes  it  into  dubbin." 

"  What  made  either  of  the  others  throw  it,  I  wonder.^" 
Jude  asked,  politely  accepting  her  assertion,  though  he 
had  very  large  doubts  as  to  its  truth. 

"  Impudence.     Don't  tell  folk  it  was  I,  mind  !" 

"  How  can  I  ?     I  don't  know  your  name." 

"  Ah,  no.     Shall  I  tell  it  to  you  ?" 

"Do!" 

"  Arabella  Donn.     I'm  living  here." 

"  Pmust  have  known  it  if  I  had  often  come  this  way. 
But  I  mostly  go  straight  along  the  high-road." 

"  My  father  is  a  pig-breeder,  and  these  girls  are  helping 
me  wash  the  innerds  for  black-puddings  and  chitterlings." 

They  talked  a  little  more  and  a  little  more,  as  they 
stood  regarding  the  limp  object  dangling  across  the 
hand-rail  of  the  bridge.  The  unvoiced  call  of  woman  to 
man,  which  was  uttered  very  distinctly  by  Arabella's  per- 
sonality, held  Jude  to  the  spot  against  his  intention — al- 
most against  his  will,  and  in  a  way  new  to  his  experience. 
It  is  scarcely  an  exaggeration  to  say  that  till  this  moment 
Jude  had  never  looked  at  a  woman  to  consider  her  as 
such,  but  had  vaguely  regarded  the  sex  as  beings  outside 
his  life  and  purposes.  He  gazed  from  her  eyes  to  her 
mouth,  thence  to  her  bosom,  and  to  her  full  round  naked 
arms,  wet,  mottled  with  the  chill  of  the  water,  and  firm  as 
marble. 

"What  a  nice-looking  girl  you  are !"  he  murmured, 
though  the  words  had  not  been  necessary  to  express  his 
sense  of  her  magnetism. 

"  Ah,  you  should  see  me  Sundays  !"  she  said,  piquantly. 

"  I  don't  suppose  I  could  ?"  he  answered. 

"  That's  for  you  to  think  on.     There's  nobody  after 


^ 


© 


JUDE  THE   OBSCURE 


me  just  now,  thoui^li  there  med  be  in  a  week  or  two." 
She  had  spoken  this  without  a  smile,  and  the  dimples 
disappeared. 

Jude  felt  himself  drifting  strangely,  but  could  not  help 
it.     "  Will  you  let  me  .-'" 

"  I  don't  mind." 

By  this  time  she  had  managed  to  get  back  one  dimple 
l:)y  turning  her  face  aside  for  a  moment  and  repeating  the 
odd  little  sucking  operation  before  mentioned,  Jude  being 
still  unconscious  of  more  than  a  general  impression  of 
her  appearance.  "Next  Sunday?"  he  hazarded.  "To- 
morrow, that  is .''" 

"  Yes." 

"  Shall  I  call  ?" 

"Yes." 

She  brightened  with  a  little  glow  of  triumph,  swept  him 
almost  tenderly  with  her  eyes  in  turning,  and  throwing 
the  offal  out  of  the  way  upon  the  grass,  rejoined  her 
companions. 

Jude  Fawley  shouldered  his  tool-basket  and  resumed 
his  lonely  way,  filled  with  an  ardor  at  which  he  mentally 
stood  at  gaze.  He  had  just  inlialed  a  single  breath  from 
a  new  atmosphere,  which  had  evidently  been  hanging 
round  him  everywhere  he  went,  for  he  knew  not  how 
long,  but  had  somehow  been  divided  from  his  actual 
breathing  as  by  a  sheet  of  glass.  The  intentions  as  to 
reading,  working,  and  learning,  which  he  had  so  precisely 
formulated  only  a  few  minutes  earlier,  were  suffering  a 
curious  collapse  into  a  corner,  he  knew  not  how. 

"  Well,  it's  only  a  bit  of  fun,"  he  said  to  himself,  faintly 
conscious  that  to  common-sense  there  was  something 
lacking,  and  still  more  obviously  something  redundant, 
in  the  nature  of  this  girl  who  had  drawn  him  to  her, 
which  made  it  necessary  that  he  should  assert  mere 
sportiveness  on  his  part  as  his  reason  in  seeking  her — 
something  in  her  quite  antipathetic  to  that  side  of  him 
which   had  been  occupied  with   literary  study  and  the 


AT   MARYGREEN 


^ 


magnificent  Christminster  dream.  It  had  been  no  vestal 
who  chose  that  missile  for  opening  her  attack  on  him. 
He  saw  this  with  his  intellectual  eye,  just  for  a  short 
fleeting  while,  as  by  the  light  of  a  falling  lamp  one  might 
momentarily  see  an  inscription  on  a  wall  before  being  en- 
shrouded in  darkness.  And  then  this  passing  discrimi- 
native power  was  withdrawn,  and  Jude  was  lost  to  all 
conditions  of  things  in  the  advent  of  a  fresh  and  wild 
pleasure,  that  of  having  found  a  new  channel  for  emo- 
tional interest  hitherto  unsuspected,  though  it  had  lain 
close  beside  him.  He  was  to  meet  this  enkindling  one 
of  the  other  sex  on  the  following  Sunday. 

Meanwhile  the  girl  had  joined  her  companions,  and  she 
silently  resumed  her  flicking  and  sousing  of  the  chitter- 
lings in  the  pellucid  stream. 

"  Catched  un,  my  dear.?"  laconically  asked  the  girl 
called  Anny. 

"  I  don't  know.  I  wish  I  had  thrown  something  else 
than  that !"  regretfully  murmured  Arabella. 

"  Lord  !  he's  nobody,  though  you  med  think  so.  He 
used  to  drive  old  Drusilla  Fawley's  bread-cart  out  at 
Marygrcen,  till  he  'prenticed  himself  at  Alfredston.  Since 
then  he's  been  very  stuck  up,  and  always  reading.  He 
wants  to  be  a  scholar,  they  say." 

"  Oh,  I  don't  care  what  he  is,  or  anything  about  'n. 
Don't  you  think  it,  my  child  !" 

"  Oh,  don't  'ee  I  You  needn't  try  to  deceive  us  !  What 
did  you  stay  talking  to  him  for,  if  you  didn't  want  un  .•* 
Whether  you  do  or  whether  you  don't,  he's  as  simple  as 
a  child.  I  could  see  it  as  you  courted  on  the  bridge,  wi' 
that  piece  o'  the  pig  hanging  between  ye  —  haw-haw! 
What  a  proper  thing  to  court  over  I  Well,  he's  to  be 
had  by  any  woman  who  can  get  him  to  care  for  her  a  bit, 
if  she  likes  to  set  herself  to  catch  him  the  right  way." 


0 


VII 

The  next  day  Jude  Fawley  was  pausing  in  his  bed- 
room with  the  sloping  ceiling,  looking  at  the  books  on 
the  table,  and  then  at  the  black  mark  on  the  plaster  above 
them,  made  by  the  smoke  of  his  lamp  in  past  months. 

It  was  Sunday  afternoon,  four-and-twenty  hours  after 
his  meeting  with  Arabella  Donn.  During  the  whole  by- 
gone week  he  had  been  resolving  to  set  this  afternoon 
apart  for  a  special  purpose — the  re-reading  of  his  Greek 
Testament — his  new  one,  with  better  type  than  his  old 
copy,  following  Griesbach's  text  as  amended  by  numerous 
correctors,  and  with  variorum  readings  in  the  margin. 
He  was  proud  of  the  book,  having  obtained  it  by  boldly 
writing  to  its  London  publisher,  a  thing  he  had  never 
done  before. 

He  had  anticipated  much  pleasure  in  this  afternoon's 
reading,  under  the  quiet  roof  of  his  great-aunt's  house 
as  formerly,  where  he  now  slept  only  two  nights  a  week. 
But  a  new  thing,  a  great  hitch,  had  happened  yesterday 
in  the  gliding  and  noiseless  current  of  his  life,  and  he  felt 
as  a  snake  must  feel  who  has  sloughed  off  its  winter  skin, 
and  cannot  understand  the  brightness  and  sensitiveness 
of  its  new  one. 

He  would  not  go  out  to  meet  her,  after  all.  He  sat 
down,  opened  the  book,  and  with  his  elbows  firmly 
planted  on  the  table  and  his  hands  to  his  temples,  be- 
gan at  the  beginning. 

H  KAINH  AIAeHKH. 


AT    MARYGREEN  45 

Had  he  promised  to  call  for  her  ?  Surely  he  had ! 
She  would  wait  in-doors,  poor  girl,  and  waste  all  her  after- 
noon on  account  of  him.  There  was  a  something  in  her, 
too,  which  was  very  winning,  apart  from  promises.  He 
ought  not  to  break  faith  with  her.  Even  though  he  had 
only  Sundays  and  week-day  evenings  for  reading,  he  could 
afford  one  afternoon,  seeing  that  other  young  men  af- 
forded so  many.  After  to-day  he  would  never  probably 
see  her  again.  Indeed,  it  would  be  impossible,  consider- 
ing what  his  plans  were. 

In  short,  as  if  materiall3\  a  compelling  arm  of  extraor- 
dinary muscular  power  seized  hold  of  him  —  something 
which  had  nothing  in  common  with  the  spirits  and  influ- 
ences that  had  moved  him  hitherto.  This  seemed  to 
care  little  for  his  reason  and  his  will,  nothing  for  his  so- 
called  elevated  intentions,  and  moved  him  along,  as  a 
violent  school-master  a  school-boy  he  has  seized  by  the 
collar,  in  a  direction  which  tended  towards  the  embrace 
of  a  woman  for  whom  he  had  no  respect,  and  whose  life 
had,ii©thtng  in  common  withJiis  own  except  locality. 

H  KAINH  AIA0HKH  was  suddenly  closed,  and  the  pre- 
destinate Jude  sprang  up  and  across  the  room.  Foresee- 
Tng  sucTi  an  event,  he  had  already  arrayed  himself  in  his 
best  clothes.  In  three  minutes  he  was  out  of  the  house 
and  descending  by  the  path  across  the  wide  vacant  hol- 
low of  corn-ground  which  lay  between  the  village  and  the 
isolated  house  of  Arabella  in  the  dip  beyond  the  upland. 

As  he  walked  he  looked  at  his  watch.  He  could  be 
back  in  two  hours,  easily,  and  a  good  long  time  would 
still  remain  to  him  for  reading  after  tea. 

Passing  the  few  unhealthy  fir-trees  and  cottage  where 
the  path  joined  the  highway  he  hastened  along,  and 
struck  away  to  the  left,  descending  the  steep  side  of  the 
country  to  the  west  of  the  Brown  House.  Here  at  the 
base  of  the  chalk  formation  he  nearcd  the  brook  that 
oozed  from  it,  and  followed  the  stream  till  he  reached 
her  dwelling.     A  smell  of  piggeries  came  from  the  back, 


46  JUDE   THE   OBSCURE 

and  the  grunting  of  the  originators  of  that  smell.  He 
entered  the  garden,  and  knocked  at  the  door  with  the 
knob  of  his  stick. 

Somebody  had  seen  him  through  the  window,  for  a 
male  voice  on  the  inside  said  : 

"Arabella!  Here's  your  young  man  come  coorting  I 
Mizzle,  my  girl !" 

jude  winced  at  the  words.  Courting  in  such  a  business- 
like aspect  as  it  evidently  wore  to  the  spea,ker  was  the 
last  thing  he  was  thinking  of.  He  was  going  to  walk 
with  her,  perhaps  kiss  her;  but  "courting"  was  too  cool- 
ly purposeful  to  be  anything  but  repugnant  to  his  ideas. 
The  door  was  opened  and  he  entered,  just  as  Arabella 
came  down-stairs  in  full  walking  attire. 

"Take  a  chair,  Mr.  What 's-your-name  ?"  said  her  fa- 
ther, an  energetic,  black- whiskered  man,  in  the  same 
business-like  tones  Jude  had  heard  from  outside. 

"  I'd  rather  go  out  at  once,  wouldn't  you  ?"  she  whis- 
pered to  Jude. 

"Yes,"  said  he.  "We'll  walk  up  to  the  Brown  House 
and  back;  we  can  do  it  in  half  an  hour." 

Arabella  looked  so  handsome  amid  her  untidy  sur- 
roundings that  he  felt  glad  he  had  come,  and  all  the  mis- 
givings vanished  that  had  hitherto  haunted  him. 

First  they  clambered  to  the  top  of  the  great  down,  dur- 
ing which  ascent  he  had  occasionally  to  take  her  hand  to 
assist  her.  Then  they  bore  off  to  the  left  along  the  crest 
into  the  ridgeway,  which  they  followed  till  it  intersected 
the  high-road  at  the  Brown  House  aforesaid,  the  spot  of 
his  former  fervid  desires  to  behold  Christminster.  But  he 
forgot  them  now.  He  talked  the  commonest  local  twad- 
dle to  Arabella  with  greater  zest  than  he  would  have  felt 
in  discussing  all  the  philosophies  with  all  the  Dons  in  the 
recently  adored  University,  and  passed  the  spot  where  he 
had  knelt  to  Diana  and  Phoebus  without  remembering 
that  there  were  any  such  people  in  the  mythology,  or  that 
the  sun  was  anything  else  than  a  useful  lamp  for  illu- 


AT   MARYGREEN  47 

minating  Arabellas  face.  An  indescribable  lightness  of 
heel  served  to  lift  him  along;  and  Jude,  the  incipient 
scholar,  prospective  D.D.,  Professor,  Bishop,  or  what  not, 
felt  himself  honored  and  glorified  by  the  condescension 
of  this  handsome  country  wench  in  agreeing  to  take  a 
walk  with  him  in  her  Sunday  frock  and  ribbons. 

They  reached  the  Brown  Hous^  barn  —  the  point  at 
which  he  had  planned  to  turn  back.  While  looking  over 
the  vast  northern  landscape  from  this  spot,  they  were 
struck  by  the  rising  of  a  dense  volume  of  smoke  from  the 
neighborhood  of  the  little  town  which  lay  beneath  them 
at  a  distance  of  a  couple  of  miles. 

"  It  is  a  fire,"  said  Arabella.  "  Let's  run  and  see  it— do  I 
It  is  not  far  !" 

The  tenderness  which  had  grown  up  in  Jude's  bosom 
left  him  no  will  to  thwart  her  inclination  now  —  which 
pleased  him  in  aflfording  him  excuse  for  a  longer  time 
with  her.  They  started  off  down  the  hill  almost  at  a 
trot;  but  on  gaining  level  ground  at  the  bottom,  and 
walking  a  mile,  they  found  that  the  spot  of  the  fire  was 
much  farther  off  than  it  had  seemed. 

Having  begun  their  journey,  however,  they  pushed  on  ; 
but  it  was  not  till  five  o'clock  that  they  found  themselves 
on  the  scene — the  distance  being  altogether  about  half  a 
dozen  miles  from  Marygreen,  and  three  from  Arabella's. 
The  conflagration  had  been  got  under  by  the  time  they 
reached  it,  and  after  a  short  inspection  of  the  melancholy 
ruins  they  retraced  their  steps— their  course  lying  through 
the  town  of  Alfredston. 

Arabella  said  she  would  like  some  tea,  and  they  entered 
an  inn  of  an  inferior  class  and  gave  their  order.  As  it 
was  not  for  beer,  they  had  a  long  time  to  wait.  The  maid- 
servant recognized  Jude,  and  whispered  her  surprise  to  her 
mistress  in  the  background,  that  he,  the  student,  "  who 
kept  hisself  up  so  particular,"  should  have  suddenly  de- 
scended so  low  as  to  keep  company  with  Arabella.  The 
latter  guessed  what  was  being  said,  and  laughed  as  she 


48  JUDE  THE  OBSCURE 

met  the  serious  and  tender  gaze  of  her  lover  —  the  low 
and  triumphant  laugh  of  a  careless  woman  who  sees  she 
is  winning  her  game. 
^  :  They  sat  and  looked  round  the  room,  and  at  the  picture 
of  Samson  and  Delilah  which  hung  on  the  wall,  and  at  the 
circular  beer-stams  on  the  table,  and  at  the  spittoons  un- 
derfoot filled  with  sawdust.  The  whole  aspect  of  the 
scene  had  that  depressing  efifect  on  Jude  which  few  places 
can  produce  like  a  tap-room  on  a  Sunday  evening  when 
the  setting  sun  is  slanting  in,  and  no  liquor  is  going,  and 
the  unfortunate  wayfarer  finds  himself  with  no  other  haven 
of  rest. 

It  began  to  grow  dusk.  They  could  not  wait  longer, 
really,  they  said.  "Yet  what  else  can  we  do.?"  asked 
jude.     "  It  is  a  three-mile  walk  for  you." 

"  I  suppose  we  can  have  some  beer,"  said  Arabella. 

"  Beer !  Oh  yes.  I  had  forgotten  that.  Somehow  it 
seems  odd  to  come  to  a  public-house  for  beer  on  a  Sun- 
day evening." 

"  But  we  didn't." 

"  No,  we  didn't."  Jude  by  this  time  wished  he  was  out 
of  such  an  uncongenial  atmosphere ;  but  he  ordered  the 
beer,  which  was  promptly  brought. 

Arabella  tasted  it.     "  Ugh  !"  she  said. 

Jude  tasted.  "  What's  the  matter  with  it?"  he  asked. 
"  I  don't  understand  beer  very  much  now,  it  is  true.  I 
like  it  well  enough,  but  it  is  bad  to  read  on,  and  I  find 
coffee  better.     But  this  seems  all  right." 

"  Adulterated — I  can't  touch  it !"  She  mentioned  three 
or  four  ingredients  that  she  detected  in  the  liquor  beyond 
malt  and  hops,  much  to  Jude's  surprise. 

"  How  much  you  know  !"  he  said,  good-humoredly. 

Nevertheless  she  returned  to  the  beer  and  drank  her 
share,  and  they  went  on  their  way.  It  was  now  nearly 
dark,  and  as  soon  as  they  had  withdrawn  from  the  lights 
of  the  town  they  walked  closer  together,  till  they  touched 
each  other.     She  wondered  why  he  did  not  put  his  arm 


AT    MARYGREEN  49 

round  her  waist,  but  he  did  not ;  he  merely  said  what  to 
himself  seemed  a  quite  bold  enough  thing:  "Take  my  arm." 

She  took  it,  thoroughly,  up  to  the  shoulder.  He  felt 
the  warmth  of  her  body  against  his,  and,  putting  his  stick 
under  his  other  arm,  held  with  his  right  hand  her  right  as 
it  rested  in  its  place. 

"  Now  we  are  well  together,  dear,  aren't  we,"  he  observed. 

"  Yes,"  said  she  ;  adding  to  herself :  "  Rather  mild  !" 

"  How  fast 'I  have  become  !"  he  was  thinking. 

Thus  they  walked  till  they  reached  the  foot  of  the  up- 
land, where  they  could  see  the  white  highway  ascending 
before  them  in  the  gloom.  From  this  point  the  only  way 
of  getting  to  Arabella's  was  by  going  up  the  incline,  and 
dipping  again  into  the  valley  on  the  right.  Before  they 
had  climbed  far  they  were  nearly  run  into  by  two  men 
who  had  been  walking  on  the  grass  unseen. 

"  These  lovers — you  find  'em  out-o'-doors  in  all  seasons 
and  weathers — lovers  and  homeless  dogs  only,"  said  one 
of  the  men  as  they  vanished  down  the  hill. 

Arabella  tittered  lightly. 

"  Are  we  lovers  ?"  asked  Jude. 

"  You  know  best." 

"  But  you  can  tell  me.''" 

For  answer  she  inclined  her  head  upon  his  shoulder. 
Jude  took  the  hint,  and  encircling  her  waist  with  his  arm, 
pulled  her  to  him  and  kissed  her. 

They  walked  now  no  longer  arm  in  arm,  but,  as  she  had 
desired,  clasped  together.  After  all,  what  did  it  matter 
since  it  was  dark,  said  Jude  to  himself.  When  they  were 
half-way  up  the  long  hill  they  paused  as  by  arrangement, 
and  he  kissed  her  again.  They  reached  the  top,  and  he 
kissed  her  once  more. 

"You  can  keep  your  arm  there,  if  you  would  like  to," 
she  said,  gently. 

He  did  so,  thinking  how  trusting  she  was. 

Thus  they  slowly  went  towards  her  home.  He  had  left 
his  cottage  at  half-past  three,  intending  to  be  sitting  down 


4 


Q 


JUDE  THE  OBSCURE 


again  to  the  New  Testament  by  half-past  five.  It  was  nine 
o'clock  when,  with  another  embrace,  he  stood  to  deliver 
her  up  at  her  father's  door. 

She  asked  him  to  come  in,  if  only  for  a  minute,  as  it 
would  seem  so  odd  otherwise,  and  as  if  she  had  been  out 
alone  in  the  dark.  He  gave  way,  and  followed  her  in. 
Immediately  that  the  door  was  opened  he  found,  in  addi- 
tion to  her  parents,  several  neighbors  sitting  round.  They 
all  spoke  in  a  congratulatory  manner,  and  took  him  se- 
riously as  Arabella's  intended  partner. 

They  did  not  belong  to  his  set  or  circle,  and  he  felt  out 
of  place  and  embarrassed.  He  had  not  meant  this :  a 
mere  afternoon  of  pleasant  walking  with  Arabella,  that 
was  all  he  had  meant.  He  did  not  stay  longer  than  to 
speak  to  her  step-mother,  a  simple,  quiet  woman,  without 
features  or  character;  and  bidding  them  all  good-night, 
plunged  with  a  sense  of  relief  into  the  track  over  the  down. 

But  that  sense  was  only  temporary.  Arabella  soon  re- 
asserted her  sway  in  his  soul.  He  walked  as  if  he  felt 
himself  to  be  another  man  from  the  Jude  of  yesterday. 
What  were  his  books  to  him  }  what  were  his  intentions, 
hitherto  adhered  to  so  strictly,  as  to  not  wasting  a  single 
minute  of  time  day  by  day.''  "  Wasting!"  It  depended 
on  your  point  of  view  to  define  that :  he  was  just  living 
\^  \  for  the  first  time  ;  not  wasting  life.  It  was  better  toJove  a 
woman  than  to  be  a  graduate,  or  a  parson — ay,  or  a  pope  I 
\ju/  When  he  got  "back  to  the  house,  his  aunt  had  gone  to 

f^  bed,  and  a  general  consciousness  of  his  neglect  seemed 

written  on  the  face  of  all  things  confronting  him.  He 
went  up-stairs  without  a  light,  and  the  dim  interior  of  his 
room  accosted  him  with  sad  inquiry.  There  lay  his  book 
open,  just  as  he  had  left  it,  and  the  capital  letters  on  the 
title-page  regarded  him  with  fixed  reproach  in  the  gray 
starlight,  like  the  unclosed  eyes  of  a  dead  man  : 

H  KAINH  AIAGHKH. 


AT   MARYGREEN  5 1 

Jude  had  to  leave  early  next  morning  for  his  usual  week 
of  absence  at  lodgings ;  and  it  was  with  a  sense  of  fu- 
tility that  he  threw  into  his  basket  upon  his  tools  and  oth- 
er necessaries  the  unread  book  he  had  brought  with  him. 

He  kept  his  impassioned  doings  a  secret  almost  from 
himself.  Arabella,  on  the  contrary,  made  them  public 
among  all  her  friends  and  acquaintances. 

Retracing  by  the  light  of  dawn  the  road  he  had  followed 
a  few  hours  earlier,  under  cover  of  darkness,  with  his 
sweetheart  by  his  side,  he  reached  the  bottom  of  the  hill, 
where  he  walked  slowly,  and  stood  still.  He  was  on  the 
spot  where  he  had  given  her  the  first  kiss.  As  the  sun 
had  only  just  risen,  it  was  possible  that  nobody  had  passed 
there  since.  Jude  looked  on  the  ground  and  sighed.  He 
looked  closely,  and  could  just  discern  in  the  damp  dust 
the  imprints  of  their  feet  as  they  had  stood  locked  in  each 
other's  arms.  She  was  not  there  now,  and  "  the  embroid- 
ery of  imagination  upon  the  stuft"  of  nature"  so  depicted 
her  past  presence  that  a  void  was  in  his  heart  which 
nothing  could  fill.  A  pollard  willow  stood  close  to  the 
place,  and  that  willow  was  difTerent  from  all  other  willows 
in  the  world.  Utter  annihilation  of  the  six  days  which 
must  elapse  before  he  could  see  her  again  as  he  had  prom- 
ised would  have  been  his  intensest  wish  if  he  had  had  only 
the  week  to  live.  « 

An  hour  and  a  half  later  Arabella  came  along  the  same 
way  with  her  two  companions  of  the  Saturday.  She 
pas.sed  unheedingly  the  scene  of  the  kiss  and  the  willow 
that  marked  it,  though  chattering  freely  on  the  subject  to 
the  other  two. 

"And  what  did  he  tell  'ee  next?" 

"  Then  he  said — "  And  she  related  almost  word  for 
word  some  of  his  tendercst  speeches.  If  Jude  had  been 
behind  the  fence  he  w^ould  have  felt  not  a  little  surprised 
at  learning  how  very  few  of  his  sayings  and  doings  on  the 
previous  evening  were  private, 

"  You've  got  him  to  care  for  'ee  a  bit,  'nation  if  you 


& 


52  JUDE  THE   OBSCURE 

Iia'n't !"  murmured  Anny,  judicially.  "  It's  well  to  be 
you  !" 

In  a  few  moments  Arabella  replied,  in  a  curiously  low, 
fierce  tone  of  latent  sensuousness  :  "  I've  got  him  to  care 
for  me — j^es !  But  I  want  him  to  more  than  care  for  me ; 
T  want  him  to  have  me — to  marry  me  !  I  must  have  him. 
I  can't  do  without  him.  He's  the  sort  of  man  I  long  for. 
I  shall  go  mad  if  I  can't  give  myself  to  him  altogether !  I 
felt  I  should  when  I  first  saw  him  !" 

"  As  he  is  a  romancing,  straightfor'ard,  honest  chap, 
he's  to  be  had,  and  as  a  husband,  if  you  set  about  catch- 
ing him  in  the  right  way." 

Arabella  remained  thinking  a  while.  "What  med  be 
the  right  way  ?"  she  asked. 

"  Oh,  you  don't  know — you  don't !"  said  Sarah,  the  third 
irl. 

"  On  my  word,  I  don't ! — No  further,  that  is,  than  by 
plain  courting,  and  taking  care  he  don't  go  too  far !" 

The  third  girl  looked  at  the  second.    "  She  don't  know !" 

"  'Tis  clear  she  don't !"  said  Anny. 

"  And  having  lived  in  a  town,  too,  as  one  may  say ! 
Well,  we  can  teach  'ee  som'at,  then,  as  well  as  you  us." 

"  Yes.  And  how  do  you  mean — a  sure  way  to  gain  a 
man?     Take  me  for  a'  innocent,  and  have  done  wi'  it!" 

"  As#.  husband." 

"As  a  husband." 

"  A  countryman  that's  honorable  and  serious-minded 
such  as  he.  God  forbid  that  I  should  say  a  sojer,  or  sail- 
or, or  commercial  gent  from  the  towns,  or  any  of  them 
that  be  slippery  with  poor  women  !  I'd  do  no  friend  that 
harm  !" 

"  Well,  such  as  he,  of  course  !" 

Arabella's  companions  looked  at  each  other,  and,  turn- 
ing up  their  eyes  in  drollery,  began  smirking.  Then  one 
went  up  close  to  Arabella,  and,  although  nobody  was 
near,  imparted  some  information  in  a  low  tone,  the  other 
observing  curiously  the  effect  upon  Arabella. 


AT   MARYGREEN  53 

"Ah!"  said  the  last-named,  slowly.  "I  own  I  didn't 
think  of  that  way!  .  .  .  But  suppose  he  isn't  honorable? 
A  woman  had  better  not  have  tried  it !" 

"  Nothing  venture  nothing  have !  Besides,  you  make 
sure  that  he's  honorable  before  you  begin.  You'd  be  safe 
enough  with  yours.  I  wish  I  had  the  chance  !  Lots  of 
girls  do  it;  or  do  you  think  they'd  get  married  at  all.-'" 

Arabella  pursued  her  way  in  silent  thought.  "  I'll  try 
it !"  she  whispered,  but  not  to  them. 


VIII 

At  the  week's  end  Jude  was  again  walking  out  to  his 
aunt's  at  Marygreen  from  his  lodging  in  Alfredston,  a 
walk  which  now  had  large  attractions  for  him  quite  other 
than  his  desire  to  see  his  aged  and  morose  relative.  He 
diverged  to  the  right  before  ascending  the  hill,  with  the 
single  purpose  of  gaining,  on  his  way,  a  glimpse  of  Ara- 
bella that  should  not  come  into  the  reckoning  of  regular 
appointments.  Before  quite  reaching  the  homestead  his 
alert  eye  perceived  the  top  of  her  head  moving  quickly 
hither  and  thither  over  the  garden  hedge.  Entering  the 
gate,  he  found  that  three  young  unfattened  pigs  had  es- 
caped from  their  sty  by  leaping  clean  over  the  top,  and 
that  she  was  endeavoring  unassisted  to  drive  them  in 
through  the  door  which  she  had  set  open.  The  lines  of 
her  countenance  changed  from  the  rigidit}^  of  business 
to  the  softness  of  love  when  she  saw  Jude,  and  she  bent 
her  eyes  languishingly  upon  him.  The  animals  took  ad- 
vantage of  the  pause  by  doubling  and  bolting  out  of  the 
way. 

"They  were  only  put  in  this  morning!"  she  cried,  stim- 
ulated to  pursue  in  spite  of  her  lover's  presence.  "They 
were  drove  from  Spaddleholt  Farm  only  yesterday,  where 
father  bought  'em  at  a  stiff  price  enough.  They  are  want- 
ing to  get  home  again,  the  stupid  toads!  Will  you  shut 
the  garden  gate,  dear,  and  help  me  to  get  'em  in  ?  There 
be  no  men-folk  at  home,  only  mother,  and  they'll  be  lost 
if  we  don't  mind." 

He  set  himself  to  assist,  and  dodged  this  way  and  that 
over  the  potato  rows  and  the  cabbages.     Every  now  and 


Af    MARYGREEN  55 

then  they  ran  together,  when  he  caught  her  for  a  moment 
and  kissed  her.  The  first  pig  was  got  back  promptly ; 
the  second  with  some  difficulty ;  the  third,  a  long-legged 
creature,  was  more  obstinate  and  agile.  He  plunged 
through  a  hole  in  the  garden  hedge,  and  into  the  lane. 

'•  He'll  be  lost  if  I  don't  follow  'n  !"  said  she.  "  Come 
along  with  me !" 

She  rushed  in  full  pursuit  out  of  the  garden,  Jude  along- 
side her,  barely  contriving  to  keep  the  fugitive  in  sight. 
Occasionally  they  would  shout  to  some  boy  to  stop  the 
animal,  but  he  always  wriggled  past  and  ran  on  as  before. 

"  Let  me  take  your  hand,  darling,"  said  Jude.  "  You 
are  getting  out  of  breath."  She  gave  him  her  now  hot 
hand  with  apparent  willingness,  and  they  trotted  along 
together. 

"  This  comes  of  driving,  'em  home,"  she  remarked. 
"  They  always  know  the  way  back  if  you  do  that.  They 
ought  to  have  been  carted  over." 

By  this  time  the  pig  had  reached  an  unfastened  gate 
admitting  to  the  open  down,  across  which  he  sped  with 
all  the  agility  his  little  legs  afforded.  As  soon  as  the 
pursuers  had  entered  and  ascended  to  the  top  of  the  high 
ground,  it  became  apparent  that  they  would  have  to  run 
all  the  way  to  the  farmer's  if  they  wished  to  get  at  him. 
From  this  summit  he  could  be  seen  as  a  minute  speck, 
following  an  unerring  line  towards  the  farm. 

"  It  is  no  good  !"  cried  Arabella.  "  He'll  be  there  long 
before  we  get  there.  It  don't  matter  now  we  know  he's 
not  lost  or  stolen  on  the  way.  They'll  see  it  is  ours,  and 
send  un  back.     Oh,  dear,  how  hot  I  be  !" 

Without  relinquishing  her  hold  of  Jude's  hand  she 
swerved  aside  and  flung  herself  down  on  the  sod  under  a 
stunted  thorn,  precipitately  pulling  Jude  on  to  his  knees 
at  the  same  time. 

"Oh,  I  ask  pardon — I  nearly  threw  you  down,  didn't 
I  ?     But  I  am  so  tired !" 

She  lay  supine,  and  straight  as  an  arrow,  on  the  sloping 


56  JUDE  THE   OBSCURE 

sod  of  this  hill-top,  gazing  up  into  the  blue  miles  of  sky, 
and  still  retaining  her  warm  hold  of  Jude's  hand.  He 
reclined  on  his  elbow  near  her. 

"  We've  run  all  this  way  for  nothing,"  she  went  on,  her 
form  heaving  and  falling  in  quick  pants,  her  face  flushed, 
her  full  red  lips  parted,  and  a  fine  dew  of  perspiration  on 
her  skin.     "  Well — why  don't  you  speak,  deary?" 

"  I'm  blown,  too.     It  was  all  up-hill." 

They  were  in  absolute  solitude — the  most  apparent  of 
all  solitudes,  that  of  empty  surrounding  space.  Nobody 
could  be  nearer  than  a  mile  to  them  without  their  seeing 
him.  They  were,  in  fact,  on  one  of  the  summits  of  the 
county,  and  the  distant  landscape  around  Christminster 
could  be  discerned  from  where  they  lay.  But  Jude  did 
not  think  of  that  then. 

"  Oh,  I  can  see  such  a  pretty  thing  up  this  tree,"  said 
Arabella.  "  A  sort  of  a — caterpillar,  of  the  most  loveliest 
green  and  yellow  you  ever  came  across  !" 

"  Where  .'*"  said  Jude,  sitting  up. 

"  You  can't  see  him  there — you  must  come  here,"  said 
she. 

He  bent  nearer  and  put  his  head  by  hers.  "  No — I  can't 
see  it,"  he  said. 

"  Why,  on  the  limb  there  where  it  branches  off — close 
to  the  moving  leaf — there  !"  She  gently  pressed  his  face 
towards  the  position. 

"  I  don't  see  it,"  he  repeated,  the  back  of  his  head 
against  her  cheek.  "  But  I  can,  perhaps,  standing  up." 
He  stood  accordingly,  placing  himself  in  the  direct  line 
of  her  gaze. 

"  How  stupid  you  are  !"  she  said,  crossly,  turning  away 
her  face. 

"  I  don't  care  to  see  it,  dear  ;  why  should  I  ?"  he  replied, 
looking  down  upon  her.     "  Get  up,  Abby." 

"Why.?" 

"I  want  you  to  let  me  kiss  you.  I've  been  waiting  to 
ever  so  long !" 


AT    MARYGREEN  57 

She  rolled  round  her  face,  remained  a  moment  looking 
deedily  aslant  at  him  ;  then,  ^vith  a  slight  curl  of  the  lip, 
sprang  to  her  feet,  and  exclaiming,  abruptly,  "  I  must  miz- 
zle !"  walked  off  quickly  homeward.  Jude  followed  and 
rejoined  her. 

"Just  one  !"  he  coaxed. 

"  Sha'n't !"  she  said. 

He,  surprised  :  "  What's  the  matter.'" 

She  kept  her  two  lips  resentfully  together,  and  Jude 
followed  her  like  a  pet  lamb  till  she  slackened  her  pace 
and  walked  beside  him,  talking  calmly  on  indifferent  sub- 
jects, and  always  checking  him  if  he  tried  to  take  her 
hand  or  clasp  her  waist.  Thus  they  descended  to  the 
precincts  of  her  father's  homestead,  and  Arabella  went  in, 
nodding  good-bye  to  him  with  a  supercilious,  affronted 
air. 

"  I  expect  I  took  too  much  liberty  with  her,  somehow," 
Jude  said  to  himself,  as  he  withdrew  with  a  sigh  and  went 
on  to  Marygreen. 

On  Sunday  morning  the  interior  of  Arabella's  home 
was,  as  usual,  the  scene  of  a  grand  weekly  cooking,  the 
preparation  of  the  special  Sunday  dinner.  Her  father 
was  shaving  before  a  little  glass  hung  on  the  mullion  of 
the  window,  and  her  mother  and  Arabella  herself  were 
shelling  beans  hard  by.  A  neighbor  passed  on  her  way 
home  from  morning  service  at  the  nearest  church,  and, 
seeing  Donn  engaged  at  the  window  with  the  razor, 
nodded  and  came  in. 

She  at  once  spoke  playfully  to  Arabella:  "I  zeed  'ee 
running  with  un — hee-hee  !  I  hope  'tis  coming  to  some- 
thing.?" 

Arabella  merely  threw  a  look  of  consciousness  into  her 
face  without  raising  her  eyes. 

"He's  for  Christminster,  I  hear,  as  soon  as  he  can  get 
there." 

"Have  you  heard  that  lately — quite  lately.'"  asked 
Arabella,  with  a  jealous,  tigerish  indrawing  of  breath. 


5« 


JUDE  THE  OBSCURE 


"  Oh  no  !  But  it  has  been  known  a  long  time  that  it 
is  his  plan.  He's  on'y  waiting  here  for  an  opening. 
Ah,  well ;  he  must  walk  about  with  somebody,  I  s'pose. 
Young  men  don't  mean  much  nowadays.  'Tis  a  sip 
here  and  a  sip  there  with  'em.  'Twas  different  in  my 
time." 

When  the  gossip  had  departed  Arabella  said/suddenly, 
to  her  mother :  "  I  want  you  and  father  to  go  and  inquire 
how  the  Edlins  be,  this  evening  after  tea.  Or  no— there's 
evening  service  at  Fensworth — you  can  walk  to  that." 

"  Oh !     What's  up  to-night,  then  ?" 

"Nothing.  Only  I  want  the  house  to  myself.  He's 
shy;  and  I  can't  get  un  to  come  in  when  you  are  here. 
I  shall  let  him  slip  through  my  fingers  if  I  don't  mind, 
much  as  I  care  for  'n  !" 

"  If  it  is  fine  we  med  as  well  go,  since  you  wish." 

In  the  afternoon  Arabella  met  and  walked  with  Jude, 
who  had  now  for  weeks  ceased  to  look  into  a  book  of 
Greek,  Latin,  or  any  other  tongue.  They  wandered  up 
the  slopes  till  they  reached  the  green  track  along  the 
ridge,  which  they  followed  to  the  circular  British  earth- 
bank  adjoining,  Jude  thinking  of  the  great  age  of  the 
trackway,  and  of  the  drovers  who  had  frequented  it,  prob- 
ably before  the  Romans  knew  the  country.  Up  from  the 
level  lands  below  them  floated  the  chime  of  church  bells. 
Presently  they  were  reduced  to  one  note,  which  quickened 
and  stopped. 

"  Now  we'll  go  back,"  said  Arabella,  who  had  attended 
to  the  sounds. 

Jude  assented.  So  long  as  he  was  near  her  he  minded 
little  where  he  was.  When  they  arrived  at  her  house  he 
said,  lingcringly  :  "  I  won't  come  in.  Why  are  you  in  such 
a  hurry  to  go  in  to-night  ?     It  is  not  near  dark." 

"  Wait  a  moment,"  said  she.  She  tried  the  handle  of 
the  door  and  found  it  locked.  "Ah  —  they  are  gone  to 
church,"  she  added.  And,  searching  behind  the  scraper, 
she  found  the  key  and  unlocked  the  door.     "  Now,  you'll 


AT   MARYGREEN  59 

come  in  a  moment  ?"  she  asked,  lightly.   "  We  shall  be  all 
alone." 

"Certainly," said  Jude,  with  alacrity,  the  case  being  un- 
expectedly altered. 

In-doors  they  went.  Did  he  want  any  tea  ?  No,  it  was 
too  late;  he  would  rather  sit  and  talk  to  her.  She  took 
off  her  jacket  and  hat,  and  they  sat  down  —  naturally 
enough  close  together. 

"  Don't  touch  me,  please,"  she  said,  softly.  "  I  am  part 
egg-shell.  Or  perhaps  I  had  better  put  it  in  a  safe  place." 
She  began  unfastening  the  collar  of  her  gown. 

"  What  is  it?"  said  her  lover. 

"  An  egg — a  bantam's  egg.  I  am  hatching  a  very  rare 
sort.  I  carry  it  about  everywhere  with  me,  and  it  will  get 
hatched  in  less  than  three  weeks." 

"Where  do  you  carry  it.''" 

"Just  here."  She  put  her  hand  into  her  bosom  and 
drew  out  the  egg,  which  was  wrapped  in  wool,  outside  it 
being  a  piece  of  pig's  bladder,  in  case  of  accidents.  Hav- 
ing exhibited  it  to  him,  she  put  it  back.  "  Now,  mind,  you 
don't  come  near  me.  I  don't  want  to  get  it  broke,  and 
have  to  begin  another." 

"  Why  do  you  do  such  a  strange  thing.'" 

"Just  for  a  fancy.     I  suppose  it  is  natural  for  a  woman* 
to  want  to  bring  live  things  into  the  world." 

"It  is  very  awkward  for  me  just  now,"  he  said,  laugh- 
ing. 

"  It  serves  you  right.  There — that's  all  you  can  have 
of  me."  She  had  turned  round  her  chair,  and  reaching 
over  the  back  of  it  presented  her  cheek  to  him  gingerly. 

"  That's  very  shabby  of  you  !" 

"  You  should  have  catched  mc  a  minute  ago  when  I 
had  put  the  egg  down  !  There  I"  she  said,  defiantly,  "  I 
am  without  it  now  !"  She  had  quickly  withdrawn  the 
egg  a  second  time;  but  before  he  could  quite  reach  her 
she  had  put  it  back  as  quickly,  laughing  with  the  excite- 
ment of  licr  strategy.     Then  there  was  a  little  struggle, 


6o  JUDE   THE  OBSCURE 

Jude  making  a  plunge  for  it  and  capturing  it  triumphant- 
ly. Her  face  flushed  ;  and  becoming  suddenly  conscious, 
he  flushed  also. 

They  looked  at  each  other,  panting;  till  he  rose  and 
said  :  "  One  kiss  ;  now  I  can  do  it  without  damage  to  prop- 
erty, and  I'll  go !" 

But  she  had  jumped  up  too.  "You  must  find  me 
first !"  she  cried. 

Her  lover  followed  her  as  she  withdrew.  It  was  now 
dark  inside  the  room,  and  the  window  being  small,  he 
could  not  discover  for  a  long  time  what  had  become  of 
her,  till  a  laugh  revealed  her  to  have  rushed  up  the  stairs, 
whither  Jude  rushed  at  her  heels. 


IX 

It  was  some  two  months  later  in  the  year,  and  the  pair 
had  met  constantly  during  the  interval.  Arabella  seemed 
dissatisfied  ;  she  was  always  imagining  and  waiting  and 
wondering. 

One  day  she  met  the  itinerant  Vilbert.  She,  like  all 
the  cottagers  thereabout,  knew  the  quack  well,  and  they 
began  talking  about  her  experiences.  Arabella  had  been 
gloomy,  but  before  he  left  her  she  had  grown  brighter. 
That  evening  she  kept  an  appointment  with  Jude,  who 
seemed  sad. 

"  I  am  going  away,"  he  said  to  her.  "  I  think  I  ought 
to  go.  I  think  it  will  be  better  both  for  you  and  for  me. 
I  wish  some  things  had  never  begun  !  I  was  much  to 
blame,  I  know.     But  it  is  never  too  late  to  mend." 

Arabella  began  to  cry.  "  How  do  you  know  it  is  not 
too  late.^"  she  said.  "That's  all  very  well  to  say!  I 
haven't  told  you  yet  !"  and  she  looked  into  his  face  with 
streaming  eyes. 

"  What  ?"  he  asked,  turning  pale.     "  Not  .  .  .  ?" 

"  Yes  !     And  what  shall  I  do  if  you  desert  me  }" 

"  Oh,  Arabella — how  can  you  say  that,  my  dear  !  You 
hi07a  I  wouldn't  desert  you  !" 

"  Well,  then— " 

"  I  have  ne.xt  to  no  wages  as  yet,  you  know  ;  or  perhaps 
I  should  have  thought  of  this  before.  .  .  .  But,  of  course, 
if  that's  the  case,  we  must  marry!  What  other  thing  do 
you  think  I  could  dream  of  doing.'" 

"I  thought — I  thought,  deary,  perhaps  you  would  go 
away  all  the  more  for  that,  and  leave  me  to  face  it  alone  !" 


62  JUDE  THE   OBSCURE 

"  You  knew  better !  Of  course  I  never  dreamed  six 
months  ago,  or  even  three,  of  marrying.  It  is  a  complete 
smashing  up  of  my  plans  —  I  mean  my  plans  before  I 
knew  you,  my  dear.  But  what  are  they,  after  all !  Dreams 
about  books,  and  degrees,  and  impossible  scholarships, 
and  all  that.     Certainly  we'll  marry  ;  we  must !" 

That  night  he  went  out  alone,  and  walked  in  the  dark, 
self-communing.  He  knew  well,  too  well,  in  the  secret 
centre  of  his  brain,  that  Arabella  was  not  worth  a  great 
deal  as  a  specimen  of  womankind.  Yet,  such  being  the 
custom  of  the  rural  districts,  among  honorable  young  men 
who  had  drifted  so  far  into  intimacy  with  a  woman  as  he 
unfortunately  had  done,  he  was  ready  to  abide  by  what 
he  had  said,  and  take  the  consequences.  For  his  own 
soothing  he  kept  up  a  factitious  belief  in  her.  His  idea 
of  her  was  the  thing  of  most  consequence,  not  Arabella 
herself,  he  sometimes  said  laconically. 

The  banns  were  put  in  and  published  the  very  next 
Sunday.  The  people  of  the  parish  all  said  what  a  simple 
fool  young  Fawley  was.  All  his  reading  had  only  come  to 
this,  that  he  would  have  to  sell  his  books  to  buy  saucepans. 
Those  who  guessed  the  probable  state  of  affairs,  Arabella's 
parents  being  among  them,  declared  that  it  was  the  sort 
of  conduct  they  would  have  expected  of  such  an  honest 
young  man  as  Jude  in  reparation  of  the  wrong  he  had 
done  his  innocent  sweetheart.  The  parson  who  married 
them  seemed  to  think  it  satisfactory  too. 

And  so,  standing  before  the  aforesaid  officiator,  the  two 
swore  that  at  every  other  time  of  their  lives  they  would 
assuredly  believe,  feel,  and  desire  precisely  as  they  had 
believed,  felt,  and  desired  during  the  few  preceding  weeks. 
What  was  as  remarkable  as  the  undertaking  itself  was 
the  fact  that  nobody  seemed  at  all  surprised  at  what  they 
swore. 

Fawley's  aunt  being  a  baker,  she  made  him  a  bride- 
cake, saying  bitterly  that  it  was  the  last  thing  she  could 
do  for  him,  poor  silly  fellow;  and  that  it  would  have 


AT   MARYGREEN  63 

been  far  better  if,  instead  of  his  living  to  trouble  her, 
he  had  gone  underground  years  before  with  his  father 
and  mother.  Of  this  cake  Arabella  took  some  slices, 
wrapped  them  up  in  white  note-paper,  and  sent  them  to 
her  companions  in  the  pork-dressing  business,  Anny  and 
Sarah,  labelling  each  packet,  " ///  remembrance  of  good 
advice." 

The  prospects  of  the  newly-married  couple  were  cer- 
tainly not  very  brilliant  even  to  the  most  sanguine  mind, 
He,  a  stone-cutter"s  apprentice,  nineteen  years  of  age,  was 
working  for  half  wages  till  he  should  be  out  of  his  time. 
His  wife  was  absolutely  useless  in  a  town-lodging,  where 
he  at  first  had  considered  it  would  be  necessary  for  them 
to  live.  But  the  urgent  need  of  adding  to  income  in  ever 
so  little  a  degree  caused  him  to  take  a  lonely  road-side 
cottage  between  the  Brown  House  and  Marygreen,  that 
he  might  have  tlie  profits  of  a  vegetable  garden,  and 
utilize  her  past  experiences  by  letting  her  keep  a  pig. 
But  it  was  not  the  sort  of  life  he  had  bargained  for,  and 
it  was  a  long  way  to  walk  to  and  from  Alfredston  every 
day.  Arabella,  however,  felt  that  all  these  makeshifts 
were  temporary ;  she  had  gained  a  husband  ;  that  was 
the  thing — a  husband  with  a  lot  of  earning  power  in  him 
for  buying  her  frocks  and  hats  when  he  should  begin  to 
get  frightened  a  bit,  and  stick  to  his  trade,  and  throw 
aside  those  stupid  books  for  practical  undertakings. 

So  to  the  cottage  he  took  her  on  the  evening  of  the 
marriage,  giving  up  his  old  room  at  his  aunt's — where  so 
much  of  the  hard  labor  at  Greek  and  Latin  had  been 
carried  on. 

A  little  chill  overspread  him  at  her  first  unrobing.  A 
long  tail  of  hair,  which  Arabella  wore  twisted  up  in  an 
enormous  knob  at  the  back  of  her  head,  was  deliberately 
unfastened,  stroked  out,  and  hung  upon  the  looking-glass 
which  he  had  bought  her. 

"  Wliat — it  wasn't  your  own .'"  he  said,  with  a  sudden 
distaste  for  her. 


64  JUDE  THE  OBSCURE 

"  Oh  no — it  never  is  nowadays  with  the  better  class." 

"  Nonsense !  Perhaps  not  in  towns.  But  in  the  coun- 
try it  is  supposed  to  be  different.  Besides,  you've  enough 
of  your  own,  surely  }     Why,  it's  a  lot !" 

"  Yes,  enough  as  country  notions  go.  But  in  towns 
the  men  expect  more,  and  when  I  was  barmaid  at  Ald- 
brickham — " 

"Barmaid  at  Aldbrickham  ?" 

"Well,  not  exactly  barmaid — I  used  to  draw  the  drink 
at  a  public-house  there — just  for  a  little  time;  that  was 
all.  Some  people  put  me  up  to  getting  this,  and  I  bought 
it  just  for  a  fancy.  The  more  you  have  the  better  in  Ald- 
brickham, which  is  a  finer  town  than  all  your  Christmin- 
sters.  Every  lady  of  position  wears  false  hair — the  barber's 
assistant  told  me  so." 

Jude  thought  with  a  feeling  of  sickness  that  though 
this  might  be  true  to  some  extent,  for  all  that  he  knew, 
many  unsophisticated  girls  would  and  did  go  to  towns 
and  remain  there  for  years  without  losing  their  sim- 
plicity of  life  and  embellishments.  Others,  alas,  had  an 
instinct  towards  artificiality  in  their  very  blood,  and 
became  adepts  in  counterfeiting  at  the  first  glimpse  of 
it.  However,  perhaps  there  was  no  great  sin  in  a  woman 
adding  to  her  hair,  and  he  resolved  to  think  no  more 
of  it. 

A  new-made  wife  can  usually  manage  to  look  interest- 
ing for  a  few  weeks,  even  though  the  prospects  of  the 
household  ways  and  means  are  cloudy.  There  is  a  cer- 
tain piquancy  about  her  situation,  and  her  manner  to  her 
acquaintance  at  the  sense  of  it,  which  carries  off  the 
gloom  of  facts,  and  renders  even  the  humblest  bride  in- 
dependent a  while  of  the  real.  Mrs.  Jude  Fawley  was 
walking  in  the  streets  of  Alfredston  one  market-day  with 
this  quality  in  her  carriage,  when  she  met  Anny,  her  for- 
mer friend,  whom  she  had  not  seen  since  the  wedding. 

As  usual,  they  laughed  before  talking;  the  world  seemed 
'ytunny  to  them  without  saying  it. 


*—'  AT    MARYGREEN  65 

"  So  it  turned  out  a  good  plan,  you  see  !"  remarked  the 
girl  to  the  wife.  "  I  knew  it  would  with  such  as  him. 
He's  a  dear  good  fellow,  and  you  ought  to  be  proud  of 
un." 

"  I  am,"  said  Mrs.  Fawley,  quietly. 

"  And  when  do  you  expect — }" 

"  "S-sh  !     Not  at  all." 

"What!" 

"  I  was  mistaken." 

"Oh,  Arabella,  Arabella;  you  be  a  deep  one!  Mis- 
taken! well,  that's  clever — it's  a  rale  stroke  of  genius! 
It  is  a  thing  I  never  thought  o',  wi'  all  my  experience  ! 
I  never  thought  beyond  the  rale  thing  —  not  that  one 
could  sham  it !" 

"  Don't  you  be  too  quick  to  cry  sham  !  'Twasn't  sham. 
I  didn't  know." 

"My  word — won't  he  be  in  a  taking!  He'll  give  it  to 
'ee  o'  Saturday  nights  !  Whatever  it  was,  he'll  say  it  was 
a  trick — a  double  one,  by  the  Lord  !" 

"  I'll  own  to  the  first,  but  not  to  the  second.  .  .  .  Pooh 
— he  won't  care !  He'll  be  glad  I  was  wrong  in  what  I 
said.  He'll  shake  down,  bless  'ee — men  always  do.  What 
can  'em  do  otherwise  ?     Married  is  married." 

Nevertheless  it  was  with  a  little  uneasiness  that  Ara- 
bella approached  the  time  when,  in  the  natural  course  of 
things,  she  would  have  to  reveal  that  the  alarm  she  had 
raised  had  been  without  foundation.  The  occasion  was 
one  evening  at  bed-time,  and  they  were  in  their  chamber 
in  the  lonely  cottage  by  the  way- side,  to  which  Jude 
walked  home  from  his  work  every  day.  He  had  worked 
hard  the  whole  twelve  hours,  and  had  retired  to  rest 
before  his  wife.  When  she  came  into  the  room  he  was 
between  sleeping  and  waking,  and  was  barely  conscious 
of  her  undressing  before  the  little  looking-glass  as  he 
lay. 

One  action  of  hers,  however,  brought  him  to  full  cogni- 
tion. Her  face  being  reflected  towards  him  as  she  sat, 
5 


66  JUDE  THE  OBSCURE 

he  could  perceive  that  she  was  amusing  herself  by  artifi- 
cially producing  in  each  cheek  the  dimple  before  alluded 
to,  a  curious  accomplishment  of  which  she  was  mistress, 
effecting  it  by  a  momentary  suction.  It  seemed  to  him 
for  the  first  time  that  the  dimples  were  far  oftener  absent 
from  her  face  during  his  intercourse  with  her  nowadays 
than  they  had  been  in  the  earlier  weeks  of  their  acquaint- 
ance. 

"  Don't  do  that,  Arabella  !"  he  said,  suddenly.  "  There 
is  no  harm  in  it,  but — I  don't  like  to  see  you." 

She  turned  and  laughed.  "  Lord,  I  didn't  know  you 
was  awake  !"  she  said.  "  How  countrified  you  are  !  That's 
nothing." 

"  Where  did  you  learn  it .''" 

"  Nowhere  that  I  know  of.  They  used  to  stay  without 
any  trouble  when  I  was  at  the  public- house ;  but  now 
they  won't.     My  face  was  fatter  then." 

"  I  don't  care  about  dimples.  I  don't  think  they  im- 
prove a  woman  —  particularly  a  married  woman,  and  of 
full-sized  figure  like  you." 

"  Most  men  think  otherwise." 

"  I  don't  care  what  most  men  think,  if  they  do.  How- 
do  you  know?" 

"  I  used  to  be  told  so  when  I  was  serving  in  the  tap- 
room." 

"  Ah— that  public-house  experience  accounts  for  your 
knowing  about  the  adulteration  of  the  ale  when  we  went 
and  had  some  that  Sunday  evening.  I  thought  when  I 
married  you  that  you  had  always  lived  in  your  father's 
house." 

"  You  ought  to  have  known  better  than  that,  and  seen 
I  was  a  little  more  finished  than  I  could  have  been  by 
staying  where  I  was  born.  There  was  not  much  to  do  at 
home,  and  I  was  eating  my  head  oflf,  so  I  went  away  for 
three  months." 

"  You'll  soon  have  plenty  to  do  now,  dear,  won't  you  .''" 

"  How  do  you  mean  ?" 


AT   MARYGREEN  V  ^7 

"  Why,  of  course — little  things  to  make." 

"Oh!" 

"  When  will  it  be  ?  Can't  you  tell  me  exactly,  instead 
of  in  such  general  terms  as  you  have  used  ?" 

"Tell  you?" 

"Yes — the  date." 

"  There's  nothing  to  tell.     I  made  a  mistake." 

"What?" 

"  It  was  a  mistake." 

He  sat  bolt  upright  in  bed  and  looked  at  her.  "  How 
can  that  be  ?" 

"  People  fancy  wrong  things  sometimes." 

"  But  — !  Why,  of  course,  so  unprepared  as  I  was, 
without  a  stick  of  furniture,  and  hardly  a  shilling,  I 
shouldn't  have  hurried  on  our  affair,  and  brought  you  to 
a  half-furnished  hut  before  I  was  ready,  if  it  had  not  been 
for  the  news  you  gave  me,  which  made  it  necessary  to 
save  you,  ready  or  no.  .  .  .  Good  God  !" 

"  Don't  take  on,  dear.     What's  done  can't  be  undone." 

"  I  have  no  more  to  say  !" 

He  gave  the  answer  simply,  and  lay  down ;  and  there 
was  silence  between  them. 

When  Jude  awoke  the  next  morning  he  seemed  to  see 
the  world  with  a  different  eye.  As  to  the  point  in  ques- 
tion, he  was  compelled  to  accept  her  word  ;  in  the  circum- 
stances he  could  not  have  acted  otherwise  while  ordinary 
notions  prevailed.     But  how  came  they  to  prevail  ? 

There  seemed  to  him,  vaguely  and  dimly,  something 
wrong  in  a  social  ritual  which  made  necessary  a  cancel- 
ling of  well-formed  schemes  involving  years  of  thought 
and  labor,  of  foregoing  a  man's  one  opportunity  of  show- 
ing himself  superior  to  the  lower  animals,  and  of  con- 
tributing his  units  of  work  to  the  general  progress  of  his 
generation,  because  of  a  momentary  surprise  by  a  new 
and  transitory  instinct  which  had  nothing  in  it  of  the 
nature  of  vice,  and  could  be  only  at  the  most  called  weak- 
ness.    He  was  inclined  to  inquire  what  he  had  done,  or 


68  JUDE  THE  OBSCURE 

she  lost,  for  that  matter,  that  he  deserved  to  be  caught  in 
a  gin  which  would  cripple  him,  if  not  her  also,  for  the  rest 
of  a  lifetime  ?  There  was  perhaps  something  fortunate  in 
tlie  fact  that  the  immediate  reason  of  his  marriage  had 
proved  to  be  non-existent.     But  the  marriage  remained. 


X 

The  time  arrived  for  killing  the  pig  which  Jude  and  his 
wife  had  fattened  in  their  sty  during  the  autumn  months, 
and  the  butchering  was  timed  to  take  place  as  soon  as  it 
was  light  in  the  morning,  so  that  Jude  might  get  to  Alfred- 
ston  without  losing  more  than  a  quarter  of  a  day. 

The  night  had  seemed  strangely  silent.  Jude  looked 
out  of  the  window  long  before  dawn,  and  perceived  that 
the  ground  was  covered  with  snow — snow  rather  deep  for 
the  season,  it  seemed,  a  few  flakes  still  falling. 

"  I'm  afraid  the  pig-killer  won't  be  able  to  come,"  he 
said  to  Arabella. 

"Oh,  he'll  come.  You  must  get  up  and  make  the  water 
hot,  if  you  want  Challow  to  scald  him.  Though  I  like 
singeing  best." 

"  I'll  get  up,"  said  Jude.  "  I  like  the  way  of  my  own 
county." 

He  went  down-stairs,  lit  the  fire  under  the  copper,  and 
began  feeding  it  with  bean-stalks,  all  the  time  without 
a  candle,  the  blaze  flinging  a  cheerful  shine  into  the 
room  ;  though  for  him  the  sense  of  cheerfulness  was  less- 
ened by  thoughts  on  the  reason  of  that  blaze  —  to  heat 
water  to  scald  an  animal  that  as  j^et  lived,  and  whose 
voice  could  be  continually  heard  from  a  corner  of  the  gar- 
den. At  half-past  six,  the  time  of  appointment  with  the 
butcher,  the  water  boiled,  and  Jude's  wife  came  down- 
stairs. . 

"  Is  Challow  come  }"  she  asked.  ' 

"No." 

They  waited,  and  it  grew  lighter,  with  the  dreary  light 


JO  JUDE  THE  OBSCURE 

of  a  snowy  dawn.  She  went  out,  gazed  along  the  road, 
and  returning,  said,  "  He's  not  coming.  Drunk  last  night, 
I  expect.    The  snow  is  not  enough  to  hinder  him,  surely !" 

"  Then  we  must  put  it  off.  It  is  only  the  water  boiled 
for  nothing.     The  snow  may  be  deep  in  the  valley." 

"  Can't  be  put  off.  There's  no  more  victuals  for  the 
pig.  He  ate  the  last  mixing  o'  barleymeal  yesterday 
morning." 

"  Yesterday  morning  ?     What  has  he  lived  on  since  ?" 

"  Nothing." 

"  What — he  has  been  starving  }" 

"Yes.  We  always  do  it  the  last  day  or  two,  to  save 
bother  with  the  innerds.  What  ignorance,  not  to  know 
that !" 

"  That  accounts  for  his  crying  so.     Poor  creature  !" 

"Well — 3'ou  must  do  the  sticking — there's  no  help  for 
it.  I'll  show  you  how.  Or  I'll  do  it  myself — I  think  I 
could.  Though  as  it  is  such  a  big  pig  I  had  rather  Chal- 
low  had  done  it.  However,  his  basket  o'  knives  and 
things  have  been  already  sent  on  here,  and  we  can  use 
'em." 

"Of  course  you  sha'n't  do  it,"  said  Jude.  "I'll  do  it, 
since  it  must  be  done." 

He  went  out  to  the  sty,  shovelled  away  the  snow  for 
the  space  of  a  couple  of  yards  or  more,  and  placed  the 
stool  in  front,  with  the  knives  and  ropes  at  hand.  f.A  rob- 
in peered  down  at  the  preparations  from  the  nearest  tree, 
and,  not  liking  the  sinister  look  of  the  scene,  flew  away, 
though  hungry.',  By  this  time  Arabella  had  joined  her 
husband,  and  Jude,  rope  in  hand,  got  into  the  sty,  and 
noosed  the  affrighted  animal.who,  beginning  with  a  squeak 
of  surprise,  rose  to  repeated  cries  of  rage.  Arabella 
opened  the  sty-door,  and  together  they  hoisted  the  vic- 
tim on  to  the  stool,  legs  upward,  and  while  Jude  held  him, 
Arabella  bound  him  down,  looping  the  cord  over  his  legs 
to  keep  him  from  struggling. 

The  animal's  note  changed  its  quality.     It  was  not  now 


*""*  AT  MARYGREEN  7 1 

rage,  but  the  cry  of  despair  ;  long-drawn,  slow,  and  hope-j^fyi^ 
less. 

"  Upon  my  soul,  I  would  sooner  have  gone  without  the 
pig  than  have  had  this  to  do  !"  said  Jude.  "  A  creature  I 
have  fed  with  my  own  hands." 

"Don't  be  such  a  tender-hearted  fool!     There's  the 
sticking-knife — the  one  with  the  point.     Now  whatever  ~"~ 
you  do,  don't  stick  un  too  deep." 

"  I'll  stick  un  effectually,  so  as  to  make  short  work  of 
it.     That's  the  chief  thing." 

"  You  must  not !"  she  cried.     "  The  meat  must  be  well 
bled,  and  to  do  that  he  must  die  slow.     "^le-shaJl  loce  a^  '^/'-/g- 
shillinga^core  if  the  meat  is  redand-bkiody  !    JusttoucH^ 
thTvein,  that's  aTT     l  was  DroiTght  up  to  it,  and  I  know. 
Every  good  butcher  keeps  un  bleeding  long.     He  ought 
to  be  eight  or  ten  minutes  dying,  at  least." 

"  He  shall  not  be  half  a  minute  if  I  can  help  it,  how- 
ever the  meat  may  look,"  said  Jude,  determinedly.  Scrap- 
ing the  bristles  from  the  pig's  upturned  throat,  as  he  had 
seen  the  butchers  do,  he  slit  the  fat ;  then  plunged  in  the 
knife  with  all  his  might. 

"  'Od  damn  it  all  !"  she  cried,  "  that  ever  I  should  say 
it:  You've  over -stuck  un  !  And  I  telling  you  all  the 
time — " 

"  Do  be  quiet,  Arabella,  and  have  a  little  pity  on  the 
creature !" 

However  unworkmanlike  the  deed,  it  had  been  merci- 
fully done.  The  blood  flowed  out  in  a  torrent  instead  of 
in  the  trickling  stream  she  had  desired.  The  dying  ani- 
mal's cry  assumed  its  third  and  final  tone,  the  shriek  of 
agony;  his  glazing  eyes  rivetting  themselves  on  Arabella 
with  the  eloquently  keen  reproach  of  a  creature  recogniz- 
ing at  last  the  treachery  of  those  who  had  seemed  his  only 
friends. 

"Make  un  stop  that!"  said  Arabella.  "Such  a  noise 
will  bring  somebody  or  other  up  here,  and  I  don't  want 
people  to  know  we  are  doing  it  ourselves."     Picking  up 


72  JUDE  THE   OBSCURE 

the  knife  from  the  ground  whereon  Jude  had  flung  it,  she 
slipped  it  into  the  gash,  and  sHt  the  wind -pipe.  The  pig 
was  instantly  silent,  his  dying  breath  coming  through  the 
hole. 

"  That's  better,"  she  said. 

"It  is  a  hateful  business!"  said  he. 
^PigS  must  be  killed." 

The  animal  heaved  in  a  final  convulsion,  and,  despite 
the  rope,  kicked  out  with  all  his  last  strength.  A  table- 
spoonful  of  black  clot  came  forth,  the  trickling  of  red  blood 
having  ceased  for  some  seconds. 

"That's  it;  now  he'll  go,"  said  she.  "  Artful  creatures 
— they  always  keep  back  a  drop  like  that  as  long  as  they 
can !" 

The  last  plunge  had  come  so  unexpectedly  as  to  make 
Jude  stagger,  and  in  recovering  himself  he  kicked  over 
the  vessel  in  which  the  blood  had  been  caught. 

"  There  !"  she  cried,  thoroughly  in  a  passion.  "  Now  I 
can't  make  an}'  blackpot.  There's  a  waste,  all  through 
you  !" 

-^Jude  put  the  pan  upright,  out  only  about  a  third  of 
the  whole  steaming  liquid  was  left  in  it,  the  main  part 
being  splashed  over  the  snow,  and  forming  a  dismal,  sor- 
did, ugly  spectacle — to  those  wh(;ijSaw  it  as  other  than  an 
ordinary  obtaining  of  meat.  The  lTps~imd  nualHlh-of  the 
animal  turned  livid,  then  white,  and  the  muscles  of  his 
limbs  relaxed. 

"  Thank  God  ! "  Jude  said.     "  He's  dead." 

"  What's  God  got  to  do  with  such  a  messy  job  as  a 
pig-killing,  I  should  like  to  know!"  she  said,  scornfully. 
"  Poor  folks  must  live." 

"  I  know,  I  know,"  said  he.     "  I  don't  scold  you." 

Suddenly  they  became  aware  of  a  voice  at  hand. 

"  Well  done,  young  married  volk  !  I  couldn't  have  car- 
ried it  out  much  better  myself,  cuss  me  if  I  could  !"  The 
voice,  which  was  husky,  came  from  the  garden-gate,  and 
looking  up  from  the  scene  of  slaughter  they  saw  the  burly 


AT    MARYGREEN  73 

form  of  Mr.  Challow  leaning  over  the  gate,  critically  sur- 
veying their  performance. 

" 'Tis  well  for  'ee  to  stand  there  and  glane!"  said  Ara- 
bella. "  Owing  to  your  being  late  the  meat  is  blooded 
and  half  spoiled  !  'Twon't  fetch  so  much  by  a  shilling  a 
score !" 

Challow  expressed  his  contrition.  "  You  should  have 
waited  a  bit,"  he  said,  shaking  his  head,  "and  not  have 
done  this — in  the  delicate  state,  too,  that  you  be  in  at 
present,  ma'am.     'Tis  risking  yourself  too  much." 

"You  needn't  be  concerned  about  that,"  said  Arabella, 
laughing.  Jude  too  laughed,  but  there  was  a  strong  flavor 
of  bitterness  in  his  amusement. 

Challow  made  up  for  his  neglect  of  the  killing  by  zeal 
in  the  scalding  and  scraping.  Jude  felt  dissatisfied  with 
himself  as  a  man  at  what  he  had  done,  though  aware  of 
his  lack  of  coninTon  sense,  and^tiat  the  deed  would  have 
amounted  to  the  same  thing  if  carried  out  by  deputy. 
The  white  snow,  stained  with  the  blood  of  his  feljow- ' 
mortal,  wore  an  illogical  look  to  him  as  a  lover  of  justice, 
not  to  say  a  Christian;  but  he  could  not  see  how  the 
mattei^was  to  be  mended.  No  doubt^he_was,  as_his  wife, 
had  called  him,  a  tender-hearted  fool. 

He  did  not  like  the  road  to  Alfredston  now.  It  stared 
him  cynically  in  the  face.  The  way-side  objects  reminded 
him  so  much  of  his  courtship  of  his  wife  that,  to  keep 
them  out  of  his  eyes,  he  read  whenever  he  could  as  he 
walked  to  and  from  his  work.  Yet  he  sometimes  felt 
that  by  caring  for  books  he  was  not  escaping  common- 
place nor  gaining  rare  ideas,  every  working-man  being  of 
that  taste  now.  When  passing  near  the  spot  by  the 
stream  on  which  he  had  first  made  her  acquaintance  he 
one  day  heard  voices  just  as  he  had  done  at  that  earlier 
time.  One  of  the  girls  who  had  been  Arabella's  com- 
panions was  talking  to  a  friend  in  a  shed,  himself  being 
the  subject  of  discourse,  possibly  because  they  had  seen 
him  in  the  distance.     They  were  quite  unaware  that  the 


74  JUDE   THE   OBSCURE 

shed-walls  were  so  thin  that  he  could  hear  their  words 
as  he  passed. 

"  Howsomev^er, 'twas  I  put  her  up  to  it!  'Nothing 
venture  nothing  have,'  I  said.  If  I  hadn't  she'd  no  more 
have  been  his  mis'ess  than  I." 

"  'Tis  my  belief  she  knew  before.  .  .  ." 

What  had  Arabella  been  put  up  to  by  this  woman,  so 
that  he  should  make  her  his  "  mis'ess,"  otherwise  wife.'' 
The  suggestion  was  horridly  unpleasant,  and  it  rankled 
in  his  mind  so  much  that  instead  of  entering  his  own 
cottage  when  he  reached  it  he  flung  his  basket  inside  the 
garden-gate  and  passed  on,  determined  to  go  and  see  his 
old  aunt  and  get  some  supper  there. 

This  made  his  arrival  home  rather  late.  Arabella, 
however,  was  busy  melting  down  lard  from  fat  of  the  de- 
ceased pig,  for  she  had  been  out  on  a  jaunt  all  day,  and 
so  delayed  her  work.  Dreading  lest  what  he  had  heard 
should  lead  him  to  say  something  regrettable  to  her,  he 
spoke  little.  But  Arabella  was  very  talkative,  and  said, 
among  other  things,  that  she  wanted  some  money.  See- 
ing the  book  sticking  out  of  his  pocket,  she  added  that 
he  ought  to  earn  more. 

"  An  apprentice's  wages  are  not  meant  to  be  enough  to 
keep  a  wife  on,  as  a  rule,  my  dear." 

"  Then  you  shouldn't  have  had  one." 

'•  Come,  Arabella  !  That's  too  bad,  when  you  know  how 
it  came  about." 

"  I'll  declare  afore  Heaven  that  I  thought  what  I  told 
you  was  true.  Doctor  Vilbert  thought  so.  It  was  a  good 
job  for  you  that  it  wasn't  so  !" 

"  I  don't  mean  that,"  he  said,  hastily.  "  I  mean  before 
that  time.  I  know  it  was  not  your  fault ;  but  those  wom- 
en friends  of  yours  gave  you  bad  advice.  If  they  hadn't, 
or  you  hadn't  taken  it,  we  should  at  this  moment  have 
been  free  from  a  bond  which,  not  to  mince  matters, 
galls  both  of  us  devilishly.  It  may  be  very  sad,  but  it  is 
true. 


AT   MARYGREEN 


/Q 


"  Who's  been  telling  you  about  my  friends  ?  What  ad- 
vice?    I  insist  upon  your  telling  me." 

"Pooh — I'd  rather  not." 

"  But  you  shall — you  ought  to.  It  is  mean  of  'ee  not 
to!" 

"Very  well."  And  he  hinted  gently  what  had  been  re- 
vealed to  him.  "  But  I  don't  wish  to  dwell  upon  it.  Let 
us  say  no  more  about  it." 

Her  defensive  manner  collapsed.  "  That  was  nothing," 
she  said,  laughing  coldly.  "  Every  woman  has  a  right  to 
do  such  as  that.     The  risk  is  hers." 

"  I  quite  deny  it,  Bella.  She  might,  if  no  life-long  pen- 
alty attached  to  it  for  the  man,  or,  in  his  default,  for  her- 
self;  if  the  weakness  of  the  moment  could  end  with  the 
moment,  or  even  with  the  year.  But  when  effects  stretch 
so  far  she  should  not  go  and  do  that  which  entraps  a  man 
if  he  is  honest,  or  herself  if  he  is  otherwise." 

•'What  ought  I  to  have  done?" 

"  Given  me  time.  .  .  .  Why  do  you  fuss  yourself  about 
melting  down  that  pig's  fat  to-night?  Please  put  it 
away !" 

"  Then  I  must  do  it  to-morrow  morning.    It  won't  keep." 

"Very  well — do." 


/<5 


XI 

Next  morning,  which  was  Sunday,  she  resumed  opera- 
tions about  ten  o'clock  ;  and  the  renewed  work  recalled  the 
conversation  which  had  accompanied  it  the  night  before, 
and  put  her  back  into  the  same  intractable  temper. 

"That's  the  story  about  me  in  Marygreen,  is  it — that  I 
entrapped  'ee  ?  Much  of  a  catch  you  was.  Lord  send!" 
As  she  warmed  she  saw  some  of  Jude's  dear  ancient  clas- 
sics on  a  table  where  they  ought  not  to  have  been  laid. 
'■  I  won't  have  them  books  here  in  the  way !"  she  cried, 
petulantly  ;  and  seizing  them  one  by  one  she  began  throw- 
ing them  on  the  floor. 

"  Leave  my  books  alone  !"  he  said.  "  You  might  have 
thrown  them  aside  if  you  had  liked,  but  as  to  soiling  them 
like  that,  it  is  disgusting!"  In  the  operation  of  making 
lard  Arabella's  hands  had  become  smeared  with  the  hot 
grease,  and  her  lingers  consequently  left  very  perceptible 
imprints  on  the  book-covers.  She  continued  deliberately 
to  toss  the  books  severally  upon  the  floor,  till  Jude,  in- 
censed beyond  bearing,  caught  her  by  the  arms  to  make 
her  leave  off.  Somehow,  in  doing  so,  he  loosened  the 
fastening  of  her  hair,  and  it  rolled  about  her  ears. 

"  Let  me  go  !"  she  said. 

"  Promise  to  leave  the  books  alone." 

She  hesitated.     "  Let  me  go  !"  she  repeated. 

"  Promise !" 

After  a  pause  :  "  I  do." 

Jude  relinquished  his  hold,  and  she  crossed  the  room 
to  the  door,  out  of  which  she  went  with  a  set  face,  and 
into  the  highway.     Here  she  began  to  saunter  up  and 


AT   MARYGREEN 

down,  perversely  pulling  her  hair  into  a  worse  disorder 
than  he  had  caused,  and  unfastening  several  buttons  of 
her  gown.  It  v*as  a  fine  Sunday  morning,  dry,  clear,  and 
frosty,  and  the  bells  of' Alfredston  Church  could  be  heard 
on  the  breeze  from  the  north.  People  were  going  along 
the  road,  dressed  in  their  holiday  clothes  ;  they  were 
mainly  lovers — such  pairs  as  Jude  and  Arabella  had  been 
when  they  sported  along  the  same  track  some  months 
earlier.  These  pedestrians  turned  to«tare  at  the  extraor- 
dinary spectacle  she  now  presented,  bonnetless,  her  di- 
shevelled hair  blowing  in  the  wind,  her  bodice  apart,  her 
sleeves  rolled  above  her  elbows  for  her  work,  and  her 
hands  reeking  with  melted  fat.  One  of  the  passers  said, 
in  mock  terror  :  "  Good  Lord  deliver  us  !" 

"See  how  he's  served  me!"  she  cried.  "Making  me 
work  Sunday  mornings  when  I  ought  to  be  going  to  my 
church,  and  tearing  my  hair  ofi  my  head,  and  my  gown 
off  my  back  !" 

Jude  was  exasperated,  and  went  out  to  drag  her  in  by 
main  force.  Then  he  suddenly  lost  his  heat.  Illuminated 
with  the  sense  that  all  was  over  between  them,  and  that  it 
mattered  not  what  she  did,  or  he,  her  husband  stood  still, 
regarding  her.  Their  lives  werejniined,  he  thought ;  ruined 
by  thefundament'al~error  of  their  matrimonial  union  ;  that 
of  having  based  a^ermanent  rnntrart  on  a  temporary 
feeling  which  had  no  necessary  connectionjvitiL.affiniti^ 
"that  alone  render  a  lite-long  comradeship  tolerable. 
-'-'^^oing'Tcnil-use  me  "on  principle,  as  yoiir  father  ill- 
used  your  mother,  and  your  father's  sister  ill-used  her  hus- 
band ?"  she  asked.  "  All  you  be  a  queer  lot  as  husbands 
and  wives !" 

Jude  fixed  an  arrested,  surprised  look  on  her.  But  she 
said  no  more,  and  continued  her  saunter  till  she  was 
tired.  He  left  the  spot,  and,  after  wandering  vaguely  a 
little  while,  walked  in  the  direction  of  Marygrecn.  Here 
he  called  upon  his  great-aunt,  whose  infirmities  daily  in- 
creased. 


78  JUDE  THE  OBSCURE 

"  Aunt — did  my  father  ill-use  my  mother,  and  my  aunt 
her  husband  ?"  said  Jude,  abruptly,  sitting  down  by  the 
fire.  ' 

She  raised  her  ancient  eyes  under  the  rim  of  the  by- 
gone bonnet  that  she  always  wore.  "  Who's  been  telling 
you  that.''"  she  said. 

"  I  have  heard  it  spoken  of,  and  want  to  know  all." 

"You  med  so  well,  I  s'pose ;  though  your  wife— I  reck- 
on 'twas  she  —  must  have  been  a  fool  to  open  up  that! 
There  isn't  much  to  know,  after  all.  Your  father  and 
mother  couldn't  get  on  together,  and  they  parted.  It 
was  coming  home  from  Alfredston  market,  when  you 
were  a  baby — on  the  hill  by  the  Brown  House  barn— that 
they  had  their  last  difference,  and  took  leave  of  one  an- 
other for  the  last  time.  Your  mother  soon  afterwards 
died — she  drowned  herself,  in  short,  and  your  father  went 
away  with  you  to  South  Wessex,  and  never  came  here 
any  more." 

jude  recalled  his  father's  silence  about  North  Wessex 
and  Jude's  mother,  never  speaking  of  either  till  his  dying 
day. 

"  It  was  the  same  with  your  father's  sister.  Her  hus- 
band offended  her,  and  she  so  disliked  living  with  him 
afterwards  that  she  went  away  to  London  with  her  little 
maid.  The  Fawleys  were  not  made  for  wedlock  ;  it  never 
^seemed  to  sit  well  upon  us.  There's  sommat  in  our  blood 
that  won't  take  kindly  to  the  notion  of  being  bound  to 
do  what  we  do  readily  enough  if  not  bound.  That's  why 
you  ought  to  have  hearkened  to  me,  and  not  ha'  married." 

"  Where  did  father  and  mother  part  —  by  the  Brown 
House,  did  you  say  ?" 

"A  little  farther  on  —  where  the  road  to  Fenworth 
branches  ofT,  and  the  hand-post  stands.  A  gibbet  once 
stood  there." 

In  the  dusk  of  that  evening  Jude  walked  away  from  his 
old  aunt's  as  if  to  go  home.  But  as  soon  as  he  reached 
the  open  down  he  struck  out  upon  it  till  he  came  to  a 


AT   MARYGREEN  79 

large  round  pond.  The  frost  continued,  though  it  was 
not  particularly  sharp,  and  the  larger  stars  overhead  came 
out  slow  and  flickering.  Jude  put  one  foot  on  the  edge 
of  the  ice,  and  then  the  other ;  it  cracked  under  his 
weight;  but  this  did  not  deter  him.  He  ploughed  his  way- 
inward  to  the  centre,  the  ice  making  sharp  noises  as  he 
went.  When  just  about  the  middle  he  looked  around 
him  and  gave  a  jump.  The  cracking  repeated  itself;  but 
he  did  not  go  down.  He  jumped  again,  but  the  cracking 
had  ceased.  Jude  went  back  to  the  edge,  and  stepped 
upon  the  ground. 

It  was  curious,  he  thought.  What  was  he  reserved  for  ? 
He  supposed  he  was  not  a  sufficiently  dignified  person 
for  suicide.  Peaceful  death  abhorred  him  as  a  subject, 
and  would  not  take  him. 

What  could  he  do  of  a  lower  kind  than  self-extermina- 
tion :  what  was  there  less  noble,  more  in  keeping  with  his 
present  degraded  position  ?  He  could  get  drunk.  Of 
course  that  was  it;  he  had  forgotten.  Drinking  was 
the  regular,  stereotyped  resource  of  the  despairing  worth- 
less. HeJjegaTLJXL  see  now  why  some  men^boo^.ed^.at 
ijxns.  He  struck  down  the  hill  northward,  and  came  to 
an  Q]3§£jire  publLc-house.  On  entering  and  sitting  down 
the  sight  of  the  picture  of  Samson  and  Delilah  on  the 
waTT  caused  him  to  recognize  the  place  as  that  he  had  vis- 
ited with  Arabella  oh  thaffirfTSunday  L-vcnin;',  of  their 
courtship.  He  called  f6r~liquor,  and  drank  briskly- for  an 
hour  orjporc. 

Staggering  homeward  late  that  night,  with  all  his  sense 
of  depression  gone,  and  his  head  fairly  clear  still,  he  began 
to  laugh  boisterously,  and  to  wonder  how  Arabella  would 
receive  him  in  his  new  aspect.  The  house  was  in  dark- 
ness when  he  entered,  and  in  his  stumbling  state  it  was 
some  time  before  he  could  get  a  light.  Then  he  found 
that,  though  the  marks  of  pig-dressing,  of  fats  and  scal- 
lops, were  visible,  tlie  materials  themselves  had  been  taken 
away.     A  line  written  by  his  wife  on  the  inside  of  an  old 


So         '  JUDE   THE   OBSCURE 

envelope  was  pinned  to  the  cotton  blower  of  the  fire- 
place : 

"  Have  gone  to  my  friends.     Shall  not  return." 

All  the  next  day  he  remained  at  home,  and  sent  off  the 
carcass  of  the  pig  to  Alfredston.  He  then  cleaned  up  the 
premises,  locked  the  door,  put  the  key  in  a  place  she 
would  know  if  she  came  back,  and  returned  to  his  mason- 
ry at  Alfredston. 

At  night  when  he  again  plodded  home  he  found  she 
had  not  visited  the  house.  The  next  day  went  in  the 
same  way,  and  the  next.  Then  there  came  a  letter  from 
her. 

That  she  had  grown  tired  of  him  she  frankly  admitted. 
He  was  such  a  slow  old  coach,  and  she  did  not  care  for 
the  sort  of  life  he  led.  There  was  no  prospect  of  his  ever 
bettering  himself  or  her.  She  further  went  on  to  say  that 
her  parents  had,  as  he  knew,  for  some  time  considered  the 
question  of  emigrating  to  Australia,  the  pig-jobbing  busi- 
ness being  a  poor  one  nowadays.  They  had  at  last  de- 
cided to  go,  and  she  proposed  to  go  with  them,  if  he  had 
no  objection.  A  woman  of  her  sort  would  have  more 
chance  over  there  than  in  this  stupid  country. 

Jude  replied  that  he  had  not  the  least  objection  to  her 
going.  He  thought  it  a  wise  course,  since  she  wished  to 
go,  and  one  that  might  be  to  the  advantage  of  both.  He 
enclosed  in  the  packet  containing  the  letter  the  money 
that  had  been  realized  by  the  sale  of  the  pig,  with  all  he 
had  besides,  which  was  not  much. 

From  that  day  he  heard  no  more  of  her  except  indi- 
rectly, though  her  father  and  his  household  did  not  im- 
mediately leave,  but  waited  till  his  goods  and  other  effects 
had  been  sold  off.  When  Jude  learned  that  there  was  to 
be  an  auction  at  the  house  of  the  Donns  he  packed  his 
own  household  goods  into  a  wagon,  and  sent  them  to  her 
at  the  aforesaid  homestead,  that  she  might  sell  them  with 
the  rest,  or  as  many  of  them  as  she  should  choose. 

He  then  went  into  lodgings  at  Alfredston,  and  saw  in  a 


AT   MARYGREEN 


; 


til/ 

4^ 


shop-window  the  little  handbill  announcing  the  sale  of 
his  father-in-law's  furniture.  He  noted  its  date,  which 
came  and  passed  without  Jude's  f^oing  near  the  place,  or 
perceiving  that  the  traflfiic  out  of  Alfredston  by  the  south- 
ern road  was  materially  increased  by  the  auction.  A  few 
days  later  he  entered  a  little  broker's  shop  in  the  main 
street  of  the  town,  and  amid  a  heterogeneous  collection 
of  saucepans,  a  clothes-horse,  rolling-pin,  brass  candle- 
stick, swing  looking-glass,  and  other  things  at  the  back  of 
the  shop,  evidently  just  brought  in  from  a  sale,  he  per- 
ceived a  little  framed  photograph,  which  turned  out  to  be 
his  own  portrait. 

If  was   one   which    he    had    had    specially   taken    and 
framed  by  a  local  man  in  bird's-e\'^e  maple,  as  a  present  ij^ 
for  Arabella,  and  had  duly  given  her  on  their  wedding-      ,   V    . 
day.    On  the  back  was  still  to  be  read,  "Jiidc  to  Arabella,"    n'^^u 
with  the  date.     She  must  have  thrown  it  in  with  the  rest  ,^ 
of  her  property  at  the  auction. 

"  Oh,"  said  the  broker,  seeing  him  look  at  this  and  the 
other  articles  in  the  heap,  and  not  perceiving  that  the 
portrait  was  of  himself,  "it  is  a  small  lot  of  stuff  that 
was  knocked  down  to  me  at  a  cottage  sale  out  on  the 
road  to  Marj'^green.  The  frame  is  a  very  useful  one,  if 
you  take  out  the  likeness.  You  shall  have  it  for  a 
shilling." 

The  utter  death  of  every  tender  sentiment  in  his  wife, 
as  brought  home  to  him  by  this  mute  and  undesigned 
evidence  of  her  sale  of  his  portrait  and  gift,  was  the  con- 
clusive little  stroke  required  to  demolish  all  sentiment  in 
him.  He  paid  the  shilling,  took  the  photograph  away 
with  him,  and  burned  it,  frame  and  all,  when  he  reached 
his  lodging. 

"Two  or  three  days  later  he  heard  that  Arabella  and 
her  parents  had  departed.  He  had  sent  a  message  offer- 
ing to  see  her  for  a  formal  leave-taking,  but  she  had  said 
that  it  would  be  better  otherwise,  since  she  was  bent  on 
going,  which  perhaps  was  true.     On  the  evening  follow- 

6 


'(3 


JUDE  THE  OBSCURE 


C 


::> 


ing  their  emigration,  when  his  day's  worlc  was  done,  he 
came  out-of-doors  after  supper,  and  strolled  in  the  star- 
light along  the  too  familiar  road  towards  the  upland 
whereon  had  been  experienced  the  chief  emotions  of  his 
life.     It  seemed  to  be  his  own  again. 

He  could  not  realize  himself.  On  the  old  track  he 
seemed  to  be  a  boy  still,  hardly  a  day  older  than  when  he 
had  stood  dreaming  at  the  top  of  that  hill,  inwardly  fired 
for  the  first  time  with  ardors  for  Christminster  and  schol- 
arship. "Yet  I  am  a  man,"  he  said.  "  T  have  a  wife. 
.More,  I  have  arrived  at  the  still  riper  stage  of  having  dis- 
agreed with  her,  disliked  her,  had  a  scufile  with  her,  and 
parted  from  her." 

He  remembered  then  that  he  was  standing  not  far 
from  the  spot  at  which  the  parting  between  his  father 
and  his  mother  was  said  to  have  occurred. 

A  little  farther  on  was  the  summit,  whence  Christmin- 
ster, or  what  he  had  taken  for  that  city,  had  seemed  to 
be  visible.  A  milestone,  now,  as  always,  stood  at  the  road- 
side hard  by.  Jude  drew  near  it,  and  felt  rather  than  read 
the  mileage  to  the  city.  He  remembered  that  once  on 
his  way  home  he  had  proudly  cut  with  his  keen  new 
chisel  an  inscription  on  the  back  of  that  milestone,  em- 
bodying his  aspirations.  It  had  been  done  in  the  first 
week  of  his  apprenticeship,  before  he  had  been  diverted 
from  his  purposes  by  an  unsuitable  woman.  He  won- 
dered if  the  inscription  were  legible  still,  and  going  to  the 
back  of  the  milestone  brushed  away  the  nettles.  By  the 
light  of  a  match  he  could  still  discern  what  he  had  cut  so 
enthusiastically  so  long  ago  : 

THITHER 
J.  F. 

The  sight  of  it,  unimpaired,  within  its  screen  of  grass  and 
nettles,  lit  in  his  soul  a  spark  of  the  old  fire.  Surely  his 
plan  should  be  to  move  onward  through  good  and  ill — to 


I 


AT   MARYGREEN  83 


avoid  morbid  sorrow  even  though  he  did  see  ugliness  in 
*  the  world  ?    Bene  agere  et  lcctari—X.o  do  good  cheerfully — 

,  which  he  had  heard  to  be  the  philosophy  of  one  Spinoza,     > 
might  be  his  own  even  now.  ■ 

He  might  battle  with  his  evil  star,  and  follow  out  his^V 
original  intention. 

By  moving  to  a  spot  a  little  way  off  he  uncovered  the 
horizon    in   a   northeasterly   direction.      There   actually 
rose  the  faint  halo,  a  small  dim  nebulousness,  hardly  rec- 
P  ognizable  save  by  the  eye  of  faith.     It  was  enough  for 

him.     He  would  go  to  Christminster  as  soon  as  the  term 
of  his  apprenticeship  expired. 

He  returned  to  his  lodgings  in  a  better  mood,  and  said 
his  prayers. 


I 


«:_• 


Part  II 


AT  CHRISTMINSTER 


''Save  his  OTvn  soul  lie  hath  no  star." — Swinburne. 

'' N'otitiam  piiiiiosqite  gracilis  vicinia  fecit ; 
Tempore  crcvit  amor.'" — Ovid. 


The  next  noteworthy  move  in  Jude's  life  was  that  in 
which  he  appeared  gliding  steadily  onward  through  a 
dusky  landscape  of  some  three  years'  later  leafage  than 
had  graced  his  courtship  of  Arabella,  and  the  disruption 
of  his  coarse  conjugal  life  with  her.  He  was  walking 
towards  Christminster  City,  at  a  point  a  mile  or  two  to 
the  southwest. 

He  had  at  last  found  himself  clear  of  Marygreen  and 
Alfredston  ;  he  was  out  of  his  apprenticeship,  and,  with 
his  tools  at  his  back,  seemed  to  be  in  the  way  of  jn^ing 
a  new  start^he  start  to  which,  barring  the  interruption 
Tnvolved  in  his  intimacy  and  married  experience  with 
Arabella,  he  had  been  looking  forward  for  about  ten 
years.  " 

Jude  would  now  have  been  described  as  a  young  man 
with  a  forcible,  meditative,  and  earnest  rather  than  hand- 
some cast  of  countenance.  He  was  of  dark  complex- 
ion, with  dark  harmonizing  eyes,  and  he  wore  a  closely 
trimmed  black  beard  of  more  advanced  growth  than  is 
usual  at  his  age ;  this,  with  his  great  mass  of  black  curly 
hair,  was  some  trouble  to  him  in  combing  and  washing 
out  the  stone-dust  that  settled  on  it  in  the  pursuit  of  his 
trade.  His  capabilities  in  the  latter,  having  been  acquired 
in  the  country,  were  of  an  all-round  sort,  including  monu- 
mental stone-cutting,  Gothic  free-stone  work  for  the  res- 
toration of  churches,  and  carving  of  a  general  kind.  In 
London  he  would  probably  have  become  specialized,  and 
have  made  himself  a  moulding  mason,  a  "foliage  sculp- 
tor " — perhaps  a  "  statuary." 


% 


JUDE   THE  OBSCURE 


\ 


'-^ 


He  bad  that  afternoon  driven  in  a  cart  from  Alfredston 
to  the  village  nearest  the  city  in  this  direction,  and  was 
now  walking  the  remaining  four  miles  rather  from  choice 
than  from  necessity,  having  always  fancied  himself  arriv- 
ing thus. 

The  ultimate  impulse  to  come  had  had  a  curious  origin/ 
— one  more  nearly  related  to  the  emotional  side  of  him/ 
than  to  the  intellectual,  as  is  often  the  case  with  young 
men.  One  day,  while  in  lodgings  at  Alfredston,  he  had 
gone  to  Marj'green  to  see  his  old  aunt,  and  had  observed 
between  the  brass  candlesticks  on  her  mantel-piece  the 
photograph  of  a  pretty  girlish  face,  in  a  broad  hat,  with 
radiating  folds  under  the  brim  like  tlie  rays  of  a  halo. 
He  had  as^ked  jvhcLshe^was.  His  grand-aunt  had  gruffly 
replied  that  she  was  his  cousin, '^Sue  Bridehcad,  of  the  in- 
imical branch  of  the  family;  and  on  further  questioning 
the  old  woman  had  replied  that  the  girl  lived  in  Christ- 
minster,  though  she  did  not  know  where,  or  what  she  was 
doing. 

His  aunt  would  not  give  him  the  photograph.  But  it 
haunted  him  ;  and  ultimately  formed  a  quickening  in- 
gredient in  his  latent  intent  of  following  his  friend  the 
school-master  thither. 

He  now  paused  at  the  top  of  a  crooked  and  gentle  de- 
clivity, and  obtained  his  first  near  view  of  the  city.  Gray- 
stoned  and  dun-roofed,  it  stood  within  hail  of  the  Wessex 
border,  and  almost  with  the  tip  of  one  small  toe  within 
it,  at  the  northernmost  point  of  the  crinkled  line  along 
which  the  leisurely  Thames  strokes  the  fields  of  that  an- 
cient kingdom.  The  buildings  now  lay  quiet  in  the  sun- 
set, a  vane  here  and  there  on  their  many  spires  and  domes 
giving  sparkle  to  a  picture  of  sober  secondary  and  tertiary 
hues. 

Reaching  the  bottom,  he  moved  along  the  level  way  be- 
tween pollard  willows  growing  indistinct  in  the  twilight, 
and  soon  confronted  the  outmost  lamps  of  the  town — 
some  of  those  lamps  which  had  sent  into  the  sky  the 


AT    CHRISTMINSTER  89 

gleam  and  glory  that  caught  his  strained  gaze  in  his  days 
of  dreaming,  so  many  years  ago.  They  winked  their  yel- 
low eyes  at  him  dubiously,  and  as  if,  thougli  they  had 
been  awaiting  him  all  these  years,  in  disappointment  at 
his  tarrying,  they  did  not  much  want  him  now. 

He  was  a  species  of  Dick  Whittington,  whose  spirit  was 
touched  to  finer  issues  than  a  mere  material  gain.  He 
went  along  the  outlying  streets  with  the  cautious  tread  of 
an  explorer.  He  saw  nothing  of  the  real  city  in  the  suburbs 
on  this  side.  His  first  want  being  a  lodging,  he  scruti- 
nized carefully  such  localities  as  seemed  to  offer  on  inex- 
pensive terms  the  modest  type  of  accommodation  he  de- 
manded ;  and,  after  inquiry,  took  a  room  in  a  suburb 
nick-named  "  Beersheba,"  though  he  did  not  know  this 
at  the  time.  Here  he  installed  himself,  and,  having  had 
some  tea,  sallied  forth. 

It  was  a  windy,  whispering,  moonless  night.  To  guide 
himself  he  opened  under  a  lamp  a  map  he  had  brought. 
The  breeze  ruffled  and  fluttered  it,  but  he  could  see 
enough  to  decide  on  the  direction  he  should  take  to 
reach  the  heart  of  the  place. 

After  many  turnings  he  came  up  to  the  first  ancient 
mediceval  pile  that  he  had  encountered.  It  was  a  col- 
lege, as  he  could  see  by  the  gateway.  He  entered  it, 
walked  round,  and  penetrated  to  dark  corners  which  no 
lamplight  reached.  Close  to  this  college  was  another; 
and  a  little  farther  on  another ;  and  then  he  began  to  be 
encircled,  as  it  were,  with  the  breath  and  sentiment  of  the 
venerable  city.  When  he  passed  objects  out  of  harmony 
with  its  general  expression  he  allowed  his  eyes  to  slip 
over  them  as  if  he  did  not  see  them. 

A  bell  began  clanging,  and  he  listened  till  a  hundred  \ 
and  one  strokes  had  sounded.     He  must  have  made  a 
mistake,  he  thought ;  it  was  meant  for  a  hundred. 

When  the  gates  were  shut,  and  he  could  no  longer  get 
into  the  quadrangles,  he  rambled  under  the  walls  and 
doorways,  feeling  with  his  fingers  the  contours  of  their 


90  JUDE  THE  OBSCURE 

mouldings  and  carving.  The  minutes  passed,  fewer  and 
fewer  people  were  visible,  and  still  he  serpentined  among 
the  shadows,  for  had  he  not  imagined  these  scenes 
through  ten  by-gone  years,  and  what  mattered  a  night's 
rest  for  once?  High  against  the  black  sky  the  flash  of  a 
lamp  would  show  crocketed  pinnacles  and  indented  bat- 
tlements. Down  obscure  alleys,  apparently  never  trod- 
den now  by  the  foot  of  man,  and  whose  very  existence 
seemed  to  be  forgotten,  there  would  jut  into  the  path 
porticos,  oriels,  doorv;ays  of  enriched  and  florid  middle- 
age  design,  their  extinct  air  being  accentuated  by  the 
rottenness  of  the  stones.  It  seemed  impossible  that 
modern  thought  could  house  itself  in  such  decrepit  and 
superseded  chambers. 

Knowing  not  a  human  being  here,  Jude  began  to  be 
impressed  with  the  isolation  of  his  own  personality,  as 
with  a  self-spectre,  the  sensation  being  that  of  one  who 
walked,  but  could  not  make  himself  seen  or  heard.  He 
drew  his  breath  pensively,  and,  seeming  thus  almost  his 
ow^n  ghost,  gave  his  thoughts  to  the  other  ghostly  pres- 
ences with  which  the  nooks  were  haunted. 

During  the  interval  of  preparation  for  this  venture, 
since  his  wife  and  furniture's  uncompromising  disappear- 
ance into  space,  he  had  read  and  learned  almost  all  that 
could  be  read  and  learned,  by  one  in  his  position,  of  the 
worthies  who  had  spent  their  youth  within  these  reverend 
walls,  and  whose  souls  had  haunted  them  in  their  maturer 
age.  Some  of  them.,  by  the  accidents  of  his  reading, 
loomed  out  in  his  fancy  disproportionately  large  by  com- 
parison with  the  rest.  The  brushing  of  the  wind  against 
the  angles,  buttresses,  and  door-jambs  were  as  the  pass- 
ing of  these  only  other  inhabitants,  the  tappings  of  each 
ivy  leaf  on  its  neighbor  were  as  the  mutterings  of  their 
mournful  souls,  the  shadows  as  their  thin  shapes  in  nerv- 
ous movement,  making  him  comrades  in  his  solitude.  In 
the  gloom  it  was  as  if  he  ran  against  them  without  feeling 
their  bodily  frames. 


AT  CHRISTMINSTER  QI 

The  streets  were  now  deserted,  but  on  account  of  these 
things  he  could  not  go  in.  There  were  poets  abroad,  of 
early  date  and  of  late,  from  the  friend  and  eulogist  of 
Shakespeare  down  to  him  who  has  recently  passed  into 
silence,  and  that  musical  one  of  the  tribe  who  is  still 
among  us.  Speculative  philosophers  passed  along,  not 
always  with  wrinkled  foreheads  and  hoary  hair  as  in 
framed  portraits,  but  pink -faced,  slim,  and  active  as  in 
youth  ;  modern  divines  sheeted  in  their  surplices,  among 
whom  the  most  real  to  Jude  Fawley  were  the  founders 
of  the  religious  school  called  Tractarian  ;  the  well-known 
three,  the  enthusiast,  the  poet,  and  the  formularist,  the 
echoes  of  whose  teachings  had  influenced  him  even  in  his  /, 
obscure  home.  A  start  of  aversion  appeared  in  his  fancy  /^,{;'2^ 
toTrTove  them  at  sight  of  those  other  sons  of  the  place, 
the  form  in  the  full-bottomed  wig,  statesman,  rake, 
reasoner,  and  skeptic;  the  smoothly  shaven  historian  so 
ironically  civil  to  Christianity ;  with  others  of  the  same 
incredulous  temper,  who  knew  each  quad  as  well  as 
the  faithful,  and  took  equal  freedom  in  haunting  its 
cloisters. 

He  regarded  the  statesmen  in  their  various  types,  men 
of  firmer  movement  and  less  dreamy  air;  the  scholar,  the 
speaker,  the  plodder;  the  man  whose  mind  grew  with 
his  growth  in  years,  and  the  man  whose  mind  contracted 
with  the  same. 

The  scientists  and  philologists  followed  on  in  his  mind- 
sight  in  an  odd  impossible  combination,  men  of  medita- 
tive faces,  lined  foreheads,  and  weak-eyed  as  bats  with 
constant  research ;  then  official  characters — such  men  as 
Governor- Generals  and  Lord  -  Lieutenants,  in  whom  he 
took  little  interest  ;  Chief-Justices  and  Lord  Chancellors, 
silent  thin -lipped  figures  of  whom  he  knew  barely  the 
names.  A  keener  regard  attached  to  the  prelates,  by 
reason  of  his  own  former  hopes.  Of  them  he  had  an  am- 
ple band — sc^me  men  of  heart,  others  rather  men  of  head  ; 
he  who  apologized  for  the  Church  in  Latin  ;  the  saintly 


92  JUDE  THE   OBSCURE 

author  of  the  Evening  Hj^mn  ;  and  near  them  the  great 
itinerant  preacher,  hymn-writer,  and  zealot,  shadowed  like 
Jude  by  his  matrimonial  difficulties. 

Jude  found  himself  speaking  out  loud,  holding  conver- 
sations with  them,  as  it  were,  like  an  actor  in  a  melo- 
drama who  apostrophizes  the  audience  on  the  other  side 
of  the  footlights;  till  he  suddenly  ceased  with  a  start  at 
his  absurdity.  Perhaps  those  incoherent  words  of  the 
wanderer  were  heard  within  the  walls  by  some  student  or 
thinker  over  his  lamp;  and  he  may  have  raised  his  head, 
and  wondered  what  voice  it  was,  and  what  it  betokened. 
Jude  now  perceived  that,  so  far  as  solid  fiesh  went,  he 
had  the  whole  aged  city  to  himself,  with  the  exception  of 
a  belated  townsman  here  and  there,  and  that  he  seemed 
to  be  catching  a  cold. 

A  voice  reached  him  out  of  the  shade;  a  real  and  local 
voice  : 

"You've  been  a-settin'  a  long  time  on  that  plinth- 
stone,  young  man.     What  med  you  be  up  to.'" 

It  came  from  a  policeman  who  had  been  observing 
Jude  without  the  latter  observing  him. 

Jude  went  home  and  to  bed,  after  reading  up  a  lit- 
tle about  these  men  and  their  several  messages  to  the 
world  from  a  book  or  two  that  he  had  brought  with  him 
concerning  the  sons  of  the  University.  As  he  drew  tow- 
ards sleep  various  memorable  words  of  theirs  that  he  had 
just  been  conning  seemed  spoken  by  them  in  muttering 
utterances;  some  audible,  some  unintelligible  to  him. 
One  of  the  spectres  (who  afterwards  railed  at  Qhrist- 
minster  as  "the  home  of  lojt  causes,"  though  Jude  did 
not  remember  this)  was  now  apo'Strephizing  her  thus: 

"Beautiful  city!  so  valuable,  so  lovely,  so  unravaged 
by  the  fierce  intellectual  life  of  our  century;  so  serene! 
.  .  .  Her  ineffable  charm  keeps  ever  calling  us  to  the  true 
goal  of  all  of  us,  to  the  ideal,  to  perfection." 

Another  voice  was  that  of  the  Corn  Law  convert, 
whose  phantom  he  had  just  seen  in  the  quadrangle  with 


AT    CHRISTMINSTER  93 

the  great  bell.  Jude  thought  his  soul  might  have  been 
shaping  the  historic  words  of  his  master-speech  : 

"  Sir,  I  may  be  wrong,  but  my  impression  is  that  my 
duty  towards  a  country  threatened  with  famine  requires 
that  that  which  has  been  the  ordinary  remedy  under  all 
similar  circumstances  should  be  resorted  to  now,  namely, 
that  there  should  be  free  access  to  the  food  of  man  from 
whatever  quarter  it  may  come.  .  .  .  Deprive  me  of  office 
to-morrow,  you  can  never  deprive  me  of  the  conscious- 
ness that  I  have  exercised  the  pov/ers  committed  to  me 
from  no  corrupt  or  interested  motives,  from  no  desire  to 
gratify  ambition,  for  no  personal  gain." 

Then  the  sly  author  of  the  immortal  Chapter  on  Chris- 
tianity: "How  shall  we  excuse  the  supine  inattention 
of  the  Pagan  and  philosophic  world,  to  those  evidences 
[miracles]  which  were  presented  by  Omnipotence?  .  ,  . 
The  sages  of  Greece  and  Rome  turned  aside  from  the 
awful  spectacle,  and  appeared  unconscious  of  any  altera- 
tions in  the  moral  or  physical  government  of  the  world." 

Then  the  shade  of  the  poet,  the  last  of  the  optimists  : 

"  How  the  world  is  made  for  each  of  us  ! 

And  each  of  the  Many  helps  to  recruit 
The  life  of  the  race  by  a  general  plan." 

Then  one  of  the  three  enthusiasts  he  had  seen  just 
now,  the  author  of  the  Apoloi^iat  : 

"  My  argument  was  .  .  .  that  absolute  certitude  as  to 
the  truths  of  natural  theology  was  the  result  of  an  assem- 
blage of  concurring  and  converging  probabilities  .  .  .  that 
probabilities  which  did  not  reach  to  logical  certainty 
might  create  a  mental  certitude." 

The  second  of  them,  no  polemic,  murmured  quieter 
things : 

"  Why  should  we  faint,  and  fear  to  live  alone. 
Since  all  alone,  so  Heaven  has  will'd,  we  die?" 


JUDE   THE   OBSCURE 

e  likewise  heard  some  phrases  spoken  by  the  phantom 
with  the  short  face,  the  genial  Spectator  : 

"  When  I  look  upon  the  tombs  of  the  great,  every  mo- 
tion of  envy  dies  in  me ,  when  I  read  the  epitaphs  of  the 
beautiful,  every  inordinate  desire  goes  out;  when  I  meet 
with  the  grief  of  parents  upon  a  tombstone,  my  heart 
melts  with  compassion  ;  when  I  see  the  tombs  of  the  pa- 
rents themselves,  I  consider  the  vanity  of  grieving  for 
those  whom  we  must  quickly  follow." 

And,  lastly,  a  gentle-voiced  prelate  spoke,  during  whose 
meek,  familiar  rhyme,  endeared  to  him  from  earliest  child- 
hood, Jude  fell  asleep : 

"Teach  me  to  live,  that  I  may  dread 
The  grave  as  little  as  my  bed. 
Teach  me  to  die.  ..." 

He    did    not    wake   till    morning.     The   ghostly    past 
seemed  to  have  gone,  and  everything  spoke  of  to-day.. 
He  started  up  in  bed,  thinking  he  had  overslept  himself, 
and  then  said  ; 

"  By  Jove— I  had  quite  forgotten  my  sweet-faced  cous^. 
in,  and  that  she's  here  all  the   time!  .  .   .  and  my  old   , 
school-master,  too."     His  words  about  his  school-master  j 
had,  perhaps,  less  zest  in  them  than  his  words  concerning/ 
his  cousin. 


? 


''f  h:^^ 


II 

Necessary  meditations  on  the  actual,  including  the 
mean  bread-and-cheese  question,  dissipated  the  phantas- 
mal for  a  while,  and  compelled  Jude  to  smother  high 
thinkings  under  immediate  needs.  He  had  to  get  up  and 
seek  for  work — manual  work,  the  only  kind  deemed  by 
many  of  its  professors  to  be  work  at  all. 

Passing  out  into  the  streets  on  this  errand,  he  found 
that  the  colleges  had  treacherously  changed  their  sympa- 
thetic countenances  :  some  were  stern  ;  some  had  put  on 
the  look  of  family  vaults  above  ground  ;  something  bar- 
baric loomed  in  the  masonries  of  all.  The  spirits  of  the 
great  men  had  disappeared. 

The  numberless  architectural  pages  around  him  he 
read,  naturally,  less  as  an  artist-critic  of  their  forms  than 
as  an  artisan  and  comrade  of  the  dead  handicraftsmen 
whose  muscles  had  actually  executed  those  forms.  He 
examined  the  mouldings,  stroked  them  as  one  who  knew 
their  beginning,  said  they  were  difficult  or  easy  in  the 
working,  had  taken  little  or  much  time,  were  trymg  to 
the^rm,  or  convenient  to  the  tool. 

/What  at  night  had  been  perfect  and  ideal  was  by  day 
the  more  or  less  defective  real(  Cruelties,  insults,  had,  he 
perceived,  been  inflicted  on  the  aged  erections.  The  condi- 
tion of  several  moved  him  as  he  would  have  been  moved 
by  maimed  sentrent  beings.  They  were  wounded,  broken, 
sloughing  off  tiieir  outer  shape  in  the  deadly  struggle 
against  years,  weather,  and  man. 

The  rottenness  of  these  historical  documents  reminded 
him  that  he  was  not,  after  all,  hastening  on  to 'begin  the 


96  I  JUDE  THE   OBSCURE 

morning  practically  as  he  had  intended.  He  had  come  to 
work,  and  to  live  by  work,  and  the  morning  had  nearly 
gone.  It  was,  in  one  sense,  encouraging  totiiink  that  in 
a  place  of  crumbling  stones  there  must  be  plenty  for  one 
of  his  trade  to  do  in  the  business  of  renovation.  He  asked 
his  way  to  the  work-yard  of  the  stone-cutter  whose  name 
had  been  given  him  at  Alfredston  ;  and  soon  heard  the 
familiar  sound  of  the  rubbers  and  chisels. 

The  yard  was  a  little  centre  of  regeneration.  Here,  with 
keen  edges  and  smooth  curves,  were  forms  in  the  exact 
likeness  of  those  he  had  seen  abraded  and  time- eaten  on 
the  walls.  These  were  the  ideas  in  modern  prose  which 
the  lichened  colleges  presented  in  old  poetry.  Even  some 
of  those  antiques  might  have  been  called  prose  when  they 
were  new.  They  had  done  nothing  but  wait,  and  had  be- 
come poetical.  How  easy  to  the  smallest  building  ;  how 
impossible  to  most  men. 

He  asked  for  the  foreman,  and  looked  round  among 
the  new  traceries,  mullions,  transoms,  shafts,  pinnacles, 
and  battlements  standing  on  the  bankers  half  worked,  or 
waiting  to  be  removed.  They  were  marked  by  precision, 
mathematical  straightness,  smoothness,  exactitude  :  there 
in  the  old  walls  were  the  broken  lines  of  the  original 
idea;  jagged  curves,  disdain  of  precision,  irregularity,  dis- 
array. 

For  a  moment  there  fell  on  Jude  a  true  illumination ; 
that  here  in  the  stone  -yard  was  a  centre  of  effort  as 
wcictlvy_as-titat-4igiijjied  by  the  name  ot  scholarly  stuBy 
within  the  noblest  of  the^oTTeges!  BuTTielost  ft  under 
stfess-of  hie  okHrter:  He^ould  accept  any  employment 
which  might  be  offered  him  on  the  strength  of  his  late 
employer's  recommendation  ;  but  he  would  accept  it  as  a 
provisional  thing  only.  This  was  his  form  of  the  modern 
vice  of  unrest. 

Moreoverv  he-perceived  that  at  best  only  copying,  patch- 
ing, and  imitating  went  on  here,  which  he  fancied  to  be 
owing  to  some  temporary  and  local  cause.    He  did  not  at 


AT   CHRISTMIXSTER  97 

that  time  see  that  medieevalism  was  as  dead  as  a  fern-leaf 
in  a  lump  of  coal ;  that  other  developments  were  shaping 
in  the  world  around  him,  in  which  Gothic  architecture 
and  its  associations  had  no  place.  The  deadly  animosity 
of  contemporary  logic  and  vision  towards  so  much  of 
what  he  held  in  reverence  was  not  yet  revealed. 

Having  failed  to  obtain  work  here  as  yet,  he  went  away, 
and  thought  again  of  his  cousin,  whose  presence  some- 
where at  hand  he  seemed  to  feel  in  wavelets  of  interest, 
if  not  of  emotion.  How  he  wished  he  had  that  pretty  por- 
trait of  her !  At  last  he  wrote  to  his  aunt  to  send  it.  She 
did  so,  with  a  request,  however,  that  he  was  not  to  bring 
disturbance  into  the  family  by  going  to  see  the  girl  or  her 
relations.  Jude,  a  ridiculously  affectionate  fellow,  prom- 
ised nothing,  put  the  photograph  on  the  mantel -piece, 
kissed  it— he  did  not  know  why — and  felt  more  at  home. 
She  seemed  to  look  down  and  preside  over  his  tea.  It 
was  cheering — the  one  thing  uniting  him  to  the  emotions 
of  the  living  city. 

There  remained  the  school -master  —  probably  now  a 
reverend  parson.  But  he  could  not  possibly  hunt  up  such 
a  respectable  man  just  yet ;  so  raw  and  unpolished  was 
his  condition,  so  precarious  were  his  fortunes.  Thus  he 
still  remained  in  loneliness.  Although  people  moved 
round  him,  he  virtually  saw  none.  Not  as  yet  having 
mingled  with  the  active  life  of  the  place,  it  was  largely 
non-existent  to  him.  But  the  saints  and  prophets  in  the 
window-tracery,  the  paintings  in  the  galleries,  the  statues, 
the  busts,  the  gurgoyles,  the  corbel-heads  —  these  seerned 
to  breathe  his  atmosphere.  Like  all  new-comers  to  a 
spot  on  which  the  past  is  deeply  graven,  he  heard  that 
past  announcing  itself  with  an  emphasis  altogether  unsus- 
pected by,  and  even  incredible  to,  the  habitual  residents. 

For  many  days  he  haunted  the  cloisters  and  quadran- 
gles of  the  colleges  at  odd  minutes  in  passing  them,  sur- 
prised by  impish  echoes  of  his  own  footsteps,  smart  as  the 
blows  of  a  mallet.     The  Christminstcr  "  sentiment,"  as  it 

7 


98  JUDE   THE   OBSCURE 

had  been  called,  ate  further  and  further  into  him,  till  he 
probably  knew  more  about  those  buildings  materially,  ar- 
tistically, and  historically  than  any  one  of  their  inmates. 

It  was  not  till  now,  when  he  found  himself  actually  on 
the  spot  of  his  enthusiasm,  that  Jude  perceived  how  far 
away  from  the  object  of  that  enthusiasm  he  really  was. 
Only  a  wall  divided  him  from  those  happy  young  contem- 
poraries of  his  with  whom  he  shared  a  common  men- 
tal life;  men  who  had  nothing  to  do  from' morning  till 
night  but  to  read,  mark,  learn,  and  inwardly  digest.  Only 
a  wall — but  -what  a  wall  ! 

Every  day,  every  hour,  as  he  went  in  search  of  labor, 
he  saw  them  going  and  coming  also,  rubbed  shoulders 
with  them,  heard  their  voices,  marked  their  movements. 
The  conversation  of  some  of  the  more  thoughtful  among 
them  seemed  oftentimes,  owing  to  his  long  and  persistent 
preparation  for  this  place,  to  be  peculiarly  akin  to  his  own 
thoughts.  Yet  he  was  as  far  from  them  as  if  he  had  been 
at  the  antipodes.  Of  course  he  was.  He  was  a  young 
workman  in  a  white  blouse,  and  with  stone-dust  in  the 
creases  of  his  clothes;  and  in  passing  him  they  did  not 
even  see  him,  or  hear  him,  rather  saw  through  him  as 
through  a  pane  of  glass  at  their  familiars  beyond.  "What- 
ever they  were  to  him,  he  to  them  was  not  on  the  spot  at 
all ;  and  yet  he  had  fancied  he  would  be  close  to  their 
lives  by  coming  there. 

But  the  future  lay  ahead,  after  all ;  and  if  he  could  only 
be  so  fortunate  as  to  get  into  good  employment,  he  would 
put  up  with  the  inevitable.  So  he  thanked  God  for  his 
health  and  strength,  and  took  courage.  For  the  present 
he  was  outside  the  gates  of  everything,  colleges  included  ; 
perhaps  some  day  he  would  be  inside.  Those  palaces  of 
light  and  leading;  he  might  some  day  look  down  on  the 
world  through  their  panes. 

At  length  he  did  receive  a  message  from  the  stone- 
mason's yard — that  a  job  was  waiting  for  him.  It  was  his 
first  encouragement,  and  he  closed  with  the  offer  promptly. 


AT   CHRISTMINSTER  99 

He  was  young  and  strong,  or  he  never  could  have 
executed  with  such  zest  the  undertakings  to  which  he 
now  applied  himself,  since  they  involved  reading  most  of 
the  night  after  working  all  the  day.  First  he  bought  a 
shaded  lamp  for  four  and  sixpence,  and  obtained  a  good 
light.  Then  he  got  pens,  paper,  and  such  other  necessary 
books  as  he  had  been  unable  to  obtain  elsewhere.  Then, 
to  the  consternation  of  his  landlady,  he  shifted  all  the 
furniture  of  his  room — a  single  one  for  living  and  sleep- 
ing— rigged  up  a  curtain  on  a  rope  across  the  middle,  to. 
make  a  double  chamber  out  of  one,  hung  up  a  thick  blind 
that  nobody  should  know  how  he  was  curtailing  the 
hours  of  sleep,  laid  out  his  books,  and  sat  down. 

Having  been  deeply  encumbered  by  marrying,  getting 
a  cottage,  and  buying  the  furniture  which  had  disap- 
peared in  the  wake  of  his  wife,  he  had  never  been  able  to 
save  any  money  since  the  time  of  those  disastrous  vent- 
ures;  and  till  his  wages  began  to  come  in  he  was  obliged 
to  live  in  the  narrowest  way.  After  buying  a  book  or 
two  he  could  not  even  afford  himself  a  fire;  and  when 
the  nights  reeked  with  the  raw  and  cold  air  from  the 
Meadows,  he  sat  over  his  lamp  in  a  great-coat,  hat,  and 
woollen  gloves. 

From  his  window  he  could  perceive  the  spire  of  the 
Cathedral,  and  the  ogee  dome  under  which  resounded 
the  great  bell  of  the  city.  The  tall  tower,  tall  belfry  win- 
dows, and  tall  pinnacles  of  the  college  by  the  bridge  he 
could  also  get  a  glimpse  of  by  going  to  the  staircase. 
These  objects  he  used  as  stimulants  when  his  faith  in  the 
future  was  dim. 

Like  enthusiasts  in  general,  he  made  no  inquiries  into 
details  of  procedure.  Picking  up  general  notions  from 
casual  acquaintance,  he  never  dwelt  upon  them.  For  the 
present,  he  said  to  himself,  the  one  thing  necessary  was  to 
get  ready  by  accumulating  money  and  knowledge,  and 
await  whatever  chances  were  afforded  to  such  a  one  of 
becoming  a  son  of  the  University.      "  For  wisdom   is  a 


lOo)  JUDE  THE   OBSCURE 


defence,  and  money  is  a  defence ;  but  the  excellency  of 
knowledge  is,  that  wisdom  giveth  life  to  them  that  hav^e 
it."     His  dcsh-ij  absorbed  him,  and  left  no  part  of  him  to 

yeigh  its  practica5tlij:3-'r==-==^^ =^ 

At  this  time  he  received  a  nervously  anxious  letter 
from  his  poor  old  aunt,  on  the  subject  which  had  previ- 
ously distressed  her  —  a  fear  that  Jude  would  not  be 
strong-minded  enough  to  keep  away  from  his  cousin  Sue 
Bridehead  and  her  relations.  Sue's  parents,  his  aunt  be- 
lieved, had  gone  to  London,  but  the  girl  remained  at 
Christminster.  To  make  her  still  more  objectionable,  she 
was  an  artist  or  designer  of  some  sort  in  what  was  called 
an  ecclesiastical  warehouse,  which  was  a  perfect  seed-bed 
of  idolatry,  and  she  was  no  doubt  abandoned  to  mum- 
meries on  that  account  — if  not  quite  a  Papist.  (Miss 
Drusilla  Fawley  was  of  her  date.  Evangelical.) 

As  Jude  was  rather  on  an  intellectual  track  than  a 
theological,  this  news  of  Sue's  probable  opinions  did  not 
much  influence  him  one  way  or  the  other,  but  the  clew  to 
her  whereabouts  was  decicjedly  interesting.  With  an  al- 
together singular  pleasure  he  walked  at  his  earliest  spare 
minutes  past  the  shops  answering  to  his  great-aunt's  de- 
scription, and  beheld  in  one  of  them  a  young  girl  sitting 
behind  a  desk,  who  was  suspiciously  like  the  original  of 
the  portrait.  He  ventured  to  enter  on  a  trivial  errand, 
and  having  made  his  purchase,  lingered  on  the  scene.  The 
shop  seemed  to  be  kept  entirely  by  women.  It  contained 
Anglican  books,  stationery,  texts,  and  fancy  goods;  little 
plaster  angels  on  brackets,  Gothic -framed  pictures  of 
saints,  ebony  crosses  that  were  almost  crucifixes,  prayer- 
books  that  were  almost  missals.  He  felt  very  shy  of 
looking  at  the  girl  at  the  desk ;  she  was  so  pretty  that  he 
could  not  believe  it  possible  that  she  should  belong  to 
him.  Then  she  spoke  to  one  of  the  two  older  women  be- 
hind the  counter;  and  he  recognized  in  the  accents  cer- 
tain qualities  of  his  own  voice;  softened  and  sweetened, 
but  his  own.     What  was  she  doing.'     He  stole  a  glance 


AT   CHRISTMINSTER  lOI 

round.  Before  her  lay  a  piece  of  zinc,  cut  to  the  shape 
of  a  scroll  three  or  four  feet  long,  and  coated  with  a  dead- 
surface  paint  on  one  side.  Hereon  she  was  designing,  or 
illuminating,  in  characters  of  Church  text,  the  single 
word 

"A  sweet,  saintly.  Christian  business,  hers!"  thought 
he. 

Her  presence  here  was  now  fairly  enough  explained, 
her  skill  in  work  of  this  sort  having  no  doubt  been  ac- 
quired from  her  father's  occupation  as  an  ecclesiastical 
worker  in  metal.  The  lettering  on  which  she  was  en- 
gaged w^as  clearly  intended  to  be  fixed  up  in  some  chan- 
cel to  assist  devotion. 

He  came  out.  It  would  have  been  easy  to  speak  to 
her  there  and  then,  but  it  seemed  scarcely  honorable  tow- 
ards his  aunt  to  disregard  her  request  so  incontinently. 
She  had  used  him  roughly,  but  she  had  brought  him  up; 
and  the  fact  of  her  being  powerless  to  control  him  lent  a 
pathetic  force  to  a  wish  that  would  have  been  inoperative 
as  an  argument. 

So  Judc  gave  no  sign.  He  would  not  call  upon  Sue 
just  yet.  He  had  other  reasons  against  doing  so  when  he 
had  walked  away.  She  seemed  so  dainty  beside  himself 
in  his  rough  working-jacket  and  dusty  trousers  that  he 
felt  he  was  as  yet  unready  to  encounter  her,  as  he  had  felt 
about  Mr.  Phillotson.  And  how  possible  it  was  that  she 
had  inherited  the  antipathies  of  her  family,  and  would 
scorn  him,  as  far  as  a  Christian  could,  particularly  w^hen 
he  had  told  her  that  unpleasant  part  of  his  history  which 
had  resulted  in  his  becoming  enchained  to  one  of  her 
own  sex  whom  she  would  certainly  not  admire. 

Thus  he  kept  watch  over  her,  and  liked  to  feel  she  was 
there.  The  consciousness  of  her  living  presence  stimu- 
lated him.     But  she  remained  more  or  less  an  ideal  char- 


I02  JUDE   THE   OBSCURE 

acter,  about  whose  form  he  began  to  weave  curious  and 
fantastic  day-dreams. 

Between  two  and  three  weeks  afterwards  Jude  was  en- 
gaged with  some  more  men,  outside  Crozier  College  in 
Old-time  Street,  in  getting  a  block  of  worked  freestone 
from  a  wagon  across  the  pavement,  before  hoisting  it  to 
the  parapet  which  they  were  repairing.  Standing  in  po- 
sition, the  head  man  said,  "Spaik  when  ye  heave!  He- 
ho  !"     And  they  heaved. 

All  of  a  sudden,  as  he  lifted,  his  cousin  stood  close  to 
his  elbow,  pausing  a  moment  on  the  bend  of  her  foot  till 
the  obstructing  object  should  have  been  removed.  She 
looked  right  into  his  face  with  liquid,  untranslatable  eyes, 
that  combined,  or  seemed  to  him  to  combine,  keenness 
with  tenderness,  and  mystery  with  both,  their  expression, 
as  well  as  that  of  her  lips,  taking  its  life  from  some  words 
just  spoken  to  a  companion,  and  being  carried  on  into  his 
face  quite  unconsciously.  She  no  more  observed  his 
presence  than  that  of  the  dust-motes  which  his  manipu- 
lations raised  into  the  sunbeams. 

His  closeness  to  her  was  so  suggestive  that  he  trembled, 
and  turned  his  face  away  with  a  shy  instinct  to  prevent 
her  recognizing  him,  though  as  she  had  never  once  seen 
him  she  could  not  possibly  do  so,  and  might  very  well 
never  have  heard  even  his  name.  He  could  perceive  that 
though  she  was  a  country-girl  at  bottom,  a  latter  girlhood 
of  some  years  in  London,  and  a  womanhood  here,  had 
taken  all  rawness  out  of  her. 

When  she  was  gone  he  continued  his  work,  reflecting 
on  her.  He  had  been  so  caught  by  her  influence  that  he 
had  taken  no  count  of  her  general  mould  and  build. 
He  remembered  now  that  she  was  not  a  large  figure, 
that  she  was  light  and  slight,  of  the  type  dubbed  elegant. 
That  was  about  all  he  had  seen.  There  was  nothing 
statuesque  in  her;  all  was  nervous  motion.  She  was 
mobile,  living,  yet  a  painter  might  not  have  called  her 
handsome  or  beautiful.     But  the  much  that  she  was  sur- 


*-,- 


AT   CHRISTMINSTER  103 

prised  him.  She  was  quite  a  long  way  removed  from  the 
rusticity  that  was  his.  How  could  one  of  his  cross- 
grained,  unfortunate,  almost  accursed  stock,  have  con- 
trived to  reach  this  pitch  of  niceness.''  London  had 
done  it,  he  supposed. 

From  this  moment  the  emotion  which  had  been  accu- 
mulating in  his  breast  as  the  bottled-up  effect  of  solitude 
and  the  poetized  locality  he  dwelt  in,  insensibly  began  to 
precipitate  itself  on  this  half-visionary  form  ;  and  he  per- 
ceived that,  whatever  his  obedient  wish  in  a  contrary 
direction,  he  wguld  soon  be  unable  to  resist  the  desire  to 
make  himself  known  to  her. 

He  affected  to  think  of  her  quite  in  a  family  way,  since 
there  were  crushing  reasons  why  he  should  not  and  could 
not  think  of  her  in  any  other. 

The  first  reason  was  that  he  was  married,  and  it  would 
be  wrong.  The  second  was  that  they  were  cousins.  It 
was  not  well  for  cousins  to  fall  in  love,  even  when  circum- 
stances seemed  to  favor  the  passion.  The  third,  even 
were  he  free,  in  a  family  like  his  own,  where  marriage  usu- 
ally meant  a  tragic  sadness,  marriage  with  a  blood-relation 
would  duplicate  the  adverse  conditions,  and  a  tragic  sad- 
ness might  be  intensified  to  a  tragic  horror. 

Therefore,  again,  he  would  have  to  think  of  Sue  with 
only  a  relation's  mutual  interest  in  one  belonging  to  him  ; 
regard  her  in  a  practical  way  as  some  one  to  be  proud 
of;  to  talk  and  nod  to;  later  on,  to  be  invited  to  tea  by, 
the  emotion  spent  on  her  being  rigorously  that  of  a  kins- 
man and  well-wisher.  So  would  she  be  to  him  a  kindly 
star,  an  elevating  power,  a  companion  in  Anglican  wor- 
ship, a  tender  friend. 


Ill 

But  under  the  various  deterrent  influences  Jude's 
instinct  was  to  approach  her  timidly,  and  the  next 
Sunday  he  went  to  the  morning  service  in  the  Cathe- 
dral-church of  Cardinal  Collesfe  to  train  a  further  view 
of  her,  for  he  had  found  that  she  frequently  attended 
there. 

She  did  not  come,  and  he  awaited  her  in  the  afternoon, 
which  was  finer.  He  knew  that  if  she  came  at  all  she 
would  approach  the  building  along  the  eastern  side  of 
the  great  green  quadrangle  from  which  it  was  accessible, 
and  he  stood  in  a  corner  while  the  bell  was  going.  A 
few  minutes  before  the  hour  for  service  she  appeared  as 
one  of  the  figures  walking  along  under  the  College  walls, 
and  at  sight  of  her  he  advanced  up  the  side  opposite,  and 
followed  her  into  the  building,  more  than  ever  glad  that 
he  had  not  as  yet  revealed  himself.  To  see  her,  and  to 
be  himself  unseen  and  unknown,  was  enough  for  him  at 
present. 

He  lingered  a  while  in  the  vestibule,  and  the  service  was 
some  way  advanced  when  he  was  put  into  a  seat.  It  was 
a  louring,  mournful,  still  afternoon,  when  a  religion  of 
some  sort  seems  a  necessity  to  ordinary  practical  men, 
and  not  only  a  luxury  of  the  emotional  and  leisured 
classes.  In  the  dim  light  and  the  baffling  glare  of  the 
clere-story  windows  he  could  discern  the  opposite  wor- 
shippers indistinctly  only,  but  he  saw  that  Sue  was  among 
them.  He  had  not  long  discovered  the  exact  seat  that 
she  occupied  when  the  chanting  of  the  119th  Psalm,  in 
which  the  choir  was  engaged,  reached  its  second  part,  /// 


AT    CHRISTMIXSTER  I05 

quo  corrigct,  the  organ  changing  to  a  pathetic  Gregorian 
tune  as  the  singers  gave  forth  ; 

"Wherewithal  shall  a  young  man  cleanse  his  way?" 

It  was  the  very  question  that  was  engaging  Jude's  at- 
tention at  this  moment.  What  a  wicked  worthless  fellow 
he  had  been  to  give  vent  as  he  had  done  to  an  animal 
passion  for  a  woman,  and  allow  it  to  lead  to  such  dis- 
astrous consequences;  then  to  think  of  putting  an  end 
to  himself;  then  to  go  recklessly  and  get  drunk.  The 
great  waves  of  pedal  music  tumbled  round  the  choir,  and, 
nursed  on  the  supernatural  as  he  had  been,  it  is  not  won- 
derful that  he  could  hardly  believe  that  the  psalm  was 
not  specially  set  by  some  regardful  Providence  for  this 
moment  of  his  first  entry  into  the  solemn  building.  And 
yet  it  was  the  ordinary  psalm  for  the  twenty-fourth  even- 
ing of  the  month. 

The  girl  for  whom  he  was  beginning  to  nourish  an  ex- 
traordinary tenderness  was  at  this  time  ensphered  by  the 
same  harmonies  as  those  which  floated  into  his  ears  ;  and 
the  thought  was  a  delight  to  him.  She  was  probably  a 
frequenter  of  this  place,  and,  steeped  body  and  soul  in 
church  sentiment  as  she  must  be  by  occupation  and  habit, 
had,  no  doubt,  much  in  common  with  him.  To  an  im- 
pressionable and  lonely  young  man  t-lre  consciousness  of 
having  at  last  found  anchorage  for  'his  thoughts?  which 
promised  to  supply  both  social  and  spiritual  possibilities, 
was  like  the  dew  of  Hermon,  and  he  remained  through- 
out the  service  in  a  sustaining  atmosphere  of  ecstasy. 

Though  he  was  loth  to  suspect  it,  some  people  might 
have  said  to  him  that  the  atmosphere  blew  as  distinctly 
from  Cyprus  as  from  Galilee. 

Jude  waited  till  she  had  left  her  seat  and  passed  under 
the  screen  before  he  himself  moved.  She  did  not  look 
towards  him,  and  by  the  time  he  reached  the  door  she 
was  half-way  down  the  broad  path.     Being  dressed  up  in 


I06  JUDE  THE  OBSCURE 

his  Sunday  suit,  he  was  inclined  to  follow  her  and  reveal 
himself.  But  he  was  not  quite  ready  ;  and,  alas,  ought  he 
to  do  so  with  the  kind  of  feeling  tliat  was  awakening 
in  him  ? 

For  though  it  had  seemed  to  have  an  ecclesiastical  basis 
during  the  service,  and  he  had  persuaded  himself  that 
such  was  the  case,  he  could  not  altogether  be  blind  to  the 
real  nature  of  the  magnetism.  She  was  such  a  stranger 
that  the  kinship  was  affectation,  and  he  said',  "  It  can't  be  ! 
I,  a  man  with  a  wife,  must  not  know  her !"  Still,  Sue 
•was  his  own  kin,  and  the  fact  of  his  having  a  wife,  even 
though  she  was  not  in  evidence  in  this  hemisphere,  might 
be  a  help  in  one  sense.  It  would  put  all  thought  of  a  ten- 
der wish  on  his  part  out  of  Sue's  mind,  and  make  her  in- 
tercourse with  him  free  and  fearless.  It  was  with  some 
heartache  that  he  saw  how  little  he  cared  for  the  free- 
dom and  fearlessness  that  would  result  in  her  from  such 
knowledge. 

Some  little  time  before  the  date  of  this  service  in  the 
Cathedral  the  pretty,  liquid-eyed,  light-footed  young  wom- 
an, Sue  Bridehead,  had  an  afternoon's  holiday,  and  leaving 
the  ecclesiastical  establishment,  in  which  she  not  only  as- 
sisted but  lodged,  took  a  walk  into  the  country  with  a 
book  in  her  hand.  It  was  one  of  those  cloudless  days 
which  sometimes  occur  in  Wessex  and  elsewhere  between 
days  of  cold  and  wet,  as  if  intercalated  by  caprice  of  the 
weather-god.  She  went  along  for  a  mile  or  two  until  she 
came  to  much  higher  ground  than  that  of  the  city  she 
had  left  behind  her.  The  road  passed  between  green 
fields,  and  coming  to  a  stile  Sue  paused  there,  to  finish 
the  page  she  was  reading,  and  then  looked  back  at  the 
towers  and  domes  and  pinnacles,  new  and  old. 

On  the  other  side  of  the  stile,  in  the  foot-path,  she  be- 
held a  foreigner  with  black  hair  and  a  sallow  face,  sitting 
on  the  grass  beside  a  large  square  board,  whereon  were 
fixed,  as  closely  as  they  could  stand,  a  number  of  plaster 


AT   CHRISTMINSTER  107 

Statuettes,  some  of  them  bronzed,  which  he  was  re-ar- 
ranging before  proceeding  with  them  on  his  way.  They 
were  in  the  main  reduced  copies  of  ancient  marbles,  and 
comprised  divinities  of  a  very  different  character  from 
those  the  girl  was  accustomed  to  see  portrayed,  among 
them  being  a  Venus  of  standard  pattern,  a  Diana,  and,  of 
the  other  sex,  Apollo,  Bacchus,  and  Mars.  Though  the 
figures  were  many  yards  away  from  her,  the  southwest 
sun  brought  them  out  so  brilliantly  against  the  green 
herbage  that  she  could  discern  their  contours  with  lu- 
minous distinctness  ;  and  being  almost  in  a  line  between 
herself  and  the  church  towers  of  the  city,  they  awoke  in 
her  an  oddly  foreign  and  contrasting  set  of  ideas  by  com- 
parison. The  man  rose,  and,  seeing  her,  politely  took  oflf 
his  cap,  and  cried,  "  I  i-i-mages  !"  in  an  accent  that  agreed 
with  his  appearance.  In  a  moment  he  dexterously  lifted 
upon  his  knee  the  great  board  with  its  assembled  nota- 
bilities, divine  and  human,  and  raised  it  to  the  top  of  his 
head,  bringing  them  on  to  her,  and  resting  the  board  on 
the  stile.  First  he  ofYered  her  his  smaller  wares  —  the 
busts  of  kings  and  queens,  then  a  minstrel,  then  a  winged 
Cupid.     She  shook  her  head. 

"How  much  are  these  two.?"  she  said,  touching  with 
her  finger  the  Venus  and  the  Apollo— the  largest  figures 
on  the  tray. 

He  said  she  should  have  them  for  ten  shillings. 

"  I  cannot  afford  that,"  said  Sue.  She  ofTered  consider- 
ably less,  and,  to  her  surprise,  the  image-man  drew  them 
from  their  wire  stay  and  handed  them  over  the  stile.  She 
clasped  them  as  treasures. 

When  they  were  paid  for,  and  the  man  had  gone,  she 
began  to  be  concerned  as  to  what  she  should  do  with 
them.  They  seemed  so  very  large  now  that  they  were  in 
her  possession,  and  so  very  naked.  Being  of  a  nervous 
temperament,  she  trembled  at  her  enterprise.  When 
she  handled  them  the  white  pipe -clay  came  off  on  her 
gloves  and  jacket.     After  carrying  them  along  a  little  way 


I08  JUDE   THE  OBSCURE 

openly,  an  idea  came  to  her,  and  pulling  some  huge  bur- 
dock leaves,  parsley,  and  other  rank  growth  from  the  hedge, 
she  wrapped  up  her  burden  as  well  as  she  could  in  these, 
so  that  what  she  carried  appeared  to  be  an  enormous  arm- 
ful of  green  stuff,  gathered  by  a  zealous  lover  of  nature. 

"  Well,  anything  is  better  than  those  everlasting  church 
fal-lals  !"  she  said.  But  she  was  still  in  a  trembling  state, 
and  seemed  almost  to  wish  she  had  not  bought  the 
figures. 

Occasionally  peeping  inside  the  leaves  to  see  that  Ve- 
nus's  arm  was  not  broken,  she  entered  with  her  heathen 
load  into  the  most  Christian  city  in  the  country  by  an 
obscure  street  running  parallel  to  the  main  one,  and  round 
a  corner  to  the  side-door  of  the  establishment  to  which 
she  was  attached.  Her  purchases  were  taken  straight  up 
to  her  own  chamber,  and  she  at  once  attempted  to  lock 
them  in  a  box  that  was  her  very  own  property ;  but  find- 
ing them  too  cumbersome,  she  wrapped  them  in  large 
sheets  of  brown  paper,  and  stood  them  on  the  floor  in  a 
corner. 

The  mistress  of  the  house.  Miss  Fontover,  was  an  el- 
derly lady  in  spectacles,  dressed  almost  like  an  abbess; 
a  dab  at  Ritual  as  became  one  of  her  business,  and  a  wor- 
shipper at  the  ceremonial  church  of  St.  Silas,  in  the  sub- 
urb of  Beersheba  before  mentioned,  which  Jude  also  had 
begun  to  attend.  She  was  the  daughter  of  a  clergyman 
in  reduced  circumstances,  and  at  his  death,  which  had 
occurred  several  years  before  this  date,  she  boldly  avoid- 
ed penury  by  taking  over  a  little  shop  of  church  requisites 
and  developing  it  to  its  present  creditable  proportions. 
She  wore  a  cross  and  beads  round  her  neck  as  her  only 
ornament,  and  knew  the  Christian  Year  by  heart. 

She  now  came  to  call  Sue  to  tea,  and,  finding  that  the 
girl  did  not  respond  for  a  moment,  entered  the  room  just  as 
the  other  was  hastily  putting  a  string  round  each  parcel. 

"  Something  you  have  been  buying.  Miss  Bridehead  .-*" 
she  asked,  regarding  the  enwrapped  objects. 


ff-,' 


AT   CHRISTMINSTER  lOp 

"Yes — just  something  to  ornament  my  room,'"  said 
Sue. 

"  Well,  I  should  have  thought  I  had  put  enough  here 
already,"  said  Miss  Fontover,  looking  round  at  the  Goth- 
ic-framed prints  of  saints,  the  Church-text  scrolls,  and 
other  articles  which,  having  become  too  stale  to  sell,  had 
been  used  to  furnish  this  obscure  chamber.  "  What  is 
it.''  How  bulky  !"  She  tor5~a'TiTtle  hole,  about  as  big  as 
a  wafer,  in  the  brown  paper,  and  tried  to  peep  in.  "  Why, 
statuary  ?     Two  figures  .''     Where  did  you  get  them  ?" 

"Oh — I  bought  them  of  a  travelling  man  who  sells 
casts — " 

"Two  saints  ?" 

"Yes." 

"  What  ones.''" 

"  St.  Peter  and  St.— St.  Mary  Magdalen." 

"Well — now  come  down  to  tea,  and  go  and  finish  that 
organ-text,  if  there's  light  enough  afterwards." 

These  little  obstacles  to  the  indulgence  of  what  had 
been  the  merest  passing  fancy  created  in  Sue  a  great  zest 
for  unpacking  her  objects  and  looking  at  them  ;  and  at 
bedtime,  when  she  was  sure  of  being  undisturbed,  she 
unrobed  the  divinities  in  comfort.  Placing  the  pair  of 
figures  on  the  chest  of  drawers,  a  candle  on  each  side  of 
them,  she  withdrew  to  the  bed,  flung  herself  down  there- 
on, and  began  reading  a  book  she  had  taken  from  her 
box,  which  Miss  Fontover  knew  nothing  of.  It  was  a 
volume  of  Gibbon,  and  she  read  the  chapter  dealing  with 
the  reign  of  Julian  the  Apostate,  Occasionally  she  looked 
up  at  the  statuettes,  which  appeared  strange  and  out  of 
place  amid  the  other  objects  and  pictures  in  the  room, 
and,  as  if  the  scene  suggested  the  action,  she  at  length 
jumped  up  and  withdrew  another  book  from  her  box — 
a  volume  of  verse — and  turned  to  the  familiar  poem, 

"  Thou  hast  conquered,  O  pale  Galilean  : 
The  world  has  grown  gray  from  thy  breath  !" 


no  JUDE  THE   OBSCURE 

which  she  read  to  the  end.  Presently  she  put  out  the 
candles,  undressed,  and  finally  extinguished  her  own 
light. 

She  was  of  an  age  which  usually  sleeps  soundly,  yet 
to-night  she  kept  waking  up,  and  every  time  she  opened 
her  eyes  there  was  enough  diffused  light  from  the  win- 
dow to  show  her  the  white  plaster  figures,  standing  on  the 
chest  of  drawers  in  odd  contrast  to  their  environment  of 
text  and  martyr,  and  the  Gothic-framed  symbol  picture  of 
what  was  only  discernible  now  as  a  Latin  cross,  the  figure 
thereon  being  obscuj;ed  by  the  shades. 

On  one  of  these  occasions  the  church  clocks  struck 
some  small  hour.  It  fell  upon  the  ears  of  another  person, 
who  sat  bending  over  his  books  at  a  not  very  distant  spot 
in  the  same  city.  Being  Saturday  night,  the  morrow  was 
one  on  which  Jude  had  not  set  his  alarm-clock  to  call 
him  at  his  usually  early  time,  and  hence  he  had  stayed 
up,  as  was  his  custom,  two  or  three  hours  later  than  he 
could  afford  to  do  on  any  other  day  of  the  week.  Just 
then  he  was  earnestly  reading  from  his  Griesbach's  text. 
At  the  very  time  that  Sue  was  reading,  the  policeman 
and  belated  citizens  passing  along  under  his  window  might 
have  heard,  if  they  had  stood  still,  strange  syllables  mum- 
bled with  fervor  within — words  that  had  for  Jude  an  in- 
describable enchantment ;  inexplicable  sounds  something 
like  these  : 

"  All  hemin  eis  Theos  ho  Pater,  ex  ou  ta  panta,  kai 
hemeis  eis  auton :" 

Till  the  sounds  rolled  with  reverent  loudness,  as  a  book 
was  heard  to  close  : 

"  Kai  eis  Kurios  lesous  Christos,  di  ou  ta  panta  kai 
hemeis  di  autou !" 


%-,' 


I 


IV 

He  was  a  handy  man  at  his  trade,  an  all-round  man,  as 
artisans  in  country  towns  are  apt  to  be.  In  London  the 
man  who  carves  the  boss  or  knob  of  leafage  declines  to  cut 
the  fragment  of  moulding  which  merges  in  that  leafage, 
as  if  it  were  a  degradation  to  do  the  second  half  of  one 
whole.  When  there  was  not  much  Gothic  moulding  for 
Jude  to  run,  or  much  window-tracery  on  the  bankers,  he 
would  go  out  lettering  monuments  or  tombstones,  and 
take  a  pleasure  in  the  change  of  handiwork. 

The  next  tim.e  that  he  saw  her  was  when  he  was  on  a 
ladder  executing  a  job  of  this  sort  inside  one  of  the 
churches.  There  was  a  short  morning  service,  and  when 
the  parson  entered  Jude  came  down  from  his  ladder,  and 
sat  with  the  half-dozen  people  forming  the  congregation, 
till  the  prayers  should  be  ended,  and  he  could  resume  his 
tapping.  He  did  not  observe  till  the  service  was  half 
over  that  one  of  the  women  was  Sue,  who  had  accom- 
panied the  elderly  Miss  Fontover  thither. 

Jude  sat  watching  her  pretty  shoulders,  her  easy,  curi- 
ously nonchalant,  risings  and  sittings,  and  her  perfunctory 
genuflections,  and  thought  what  a  help  such  an  Anglican 
would  have  been  to  him  in  happier  circumstances.  It 
was  not  so  much  his  anxiety  to  get  on  with  his  work  that 
made  him  go  up  to  it  immediately  the  worshippers  began 
to  take  their  leave ;  it  was  that  he  dared  not,  in  this  holy 
spot,  confront  the  woman  who  was  beginning  to  influence 
him  in  such  an  indescribable  manner.  Those  three  enor- 
mous reasons  why  he  must  not  attempt  intimate  acquaint- 
ance with  Sue  Bridehead,  now  that  his  interest  in   her 


JUDE   THE   OBSCURE 

shown  itself  to  be  unmistakably  of  a  sexual  kind, 
loomed  as  stubbornly  as  ever.  But  it  was  also  obvious 
that  man  could  not  live  by  work  alone  ;  that  the  particu- 
lar man  Jude,  at  any  rate,  w^anted  something  to  love. 
Some  men  would  have  rushed  incontinently  to  her, 
snatched  the  pleasure  of  easy  friendship,  which  she  could 
hardly  refuse,  and  have  left  the  rest  to  chance.  Not  so 
Jude — at  first. 

But  as  the  days,  and  still  more  particulai-ly  the  lonely 
evenings,  dragged  along,  he  found  himself,  to  his  moral 
consternation,  to  be  thinking  more  of  her  instead  of 
thinking  less  of  her,  and  experiencing  a  fearful  bliss  in 
doing  what  was  erratic,  informal,  and  unexpected.  Sur- 
rounded by  her  influence  all  day,  walking  past  the  spots 
she  frequented,  he  was  always  thinking  of  her,  and  was 
obliged  to  own  to  himself  that  his  conscience  was  likely 
to  be  the  loser  in  this  battle. 

To  be  sure,  she  was  almost  an  ideality  to  him  still. 
Perhaps  to  know  her  would  be  to  cure  himself  of  this 
nexpected  and  unauthorized  passion.  A  voice  whis- 
pered that,  though  he  desired  to  know  her,  he  did  not 
desire  to  be  cured. 

There  was  not  the  least  doubt  that  from  his  own  ortho- 
■^<?ryT;^^Osi _  dox  point  of  view  the  situation  was  growing  immoral. 
For  Sue  to  be  the  loved  one  of  a  man  who  was  licensed 
by  the  laws  of  his  country  to  love  Arabella  and  none  oth- 
er unto  his  life's  end,  was  a  pretty  bad  secon-d  beginning, 
when  the  man  was  bent  on  such  a  course  as  Jude  pur- 
posed. This  conviction  was  so  real  with  him  that  one 
day  when,  as  was  frequent,  he  was  at  work  in  a  neighbor- 
ing village  church  alone,  he  felt  it  to  be  his  duty  to  pray 
against  his  weakness.  But  much  as  he  wished  to  be  an 
exemplar  in  these  things,  he  could  not  get  on.  It  was 
quite  impossible,  he  found,  to  ask  to  be  delivered  from 
temptation  when  your  heart's  desire  was  to  be  tempted 
unto  seventy  times  seven.  So  he  excused  himself.  "  Af- 
ter all,"  he  said,  "  it  is  not  altogether  an  crotolepsy  that  is 


i_' 


AT  CHRISTMINSTER  II3 

the  matter  with  me,  as  at  that  first  time.  I  can  see  that 
she  is  exceptionally  bright ;  and  it  is  partly  a  wish  for  in- 
tellectual sympathy,  and  a  craving  for  loving  kindness  in 
my  solitude."  Thus  he  went  on  adoring  her,  fearing  to 
realize  that  it  was  human  perversity.  For  whatever  Sue's 
virtues,  talents,  or  ecclesiastical  saturation,  it  was  certain 
that  those  items  were  not  at  all  the  cause  of  his  affection 
for  her. 

On  an  afternoon  at  this  time  a  young  girl  entered  the 
stone-mason's  yard  with  some  hesitation,  and,  lifting  her 
skirts  to  avoid  draggling  them  in  the  white  dust,  crossed 
towards  the  office. 

"  That's  a  nice  girl,"  said  one  of  the  men  known  as 
Uncle  Joe. 

"  Who  is  she  .''"  asked  another. 

"  I  don't  know — I've  seen  her  about  here  and  there. 
Why,  yes,  she's  the  daughter  of  that  clever  chap  Bride- 
head,  who  did  all  the  wrought  ironwork  at  St.  Luke's  ten 
years  ago,  and  went  away  to  London  afterwards.  I  don't 
know  what  he's  doing  now — not  much,  I  fancy — as  she's 
come  back  here." 

Meanwhile  the  young  woman  had  knocked  at  the  office 
door,  and  asked  if  Mr.  Jude  Fawley  was  at  work  in  the 
yard.  It  so  happened  that  Jude  had  gone  out  somewhere 
or  other  that  afternoon,  which  information  she  received 
with  a  look  of  disappointment,  and  went  away  imme- 
diately. When  Jude  returned  they  told  him,  and  de- 
scribed her,  whereupon  he  exclaimed,  "  Why — that's  my 
cousin  Sue  I" 

He  looked  along  the  street  after  her,  but  she  was  out 
of  sight.  He  had  no  longer  any  thought  of  a  conscien- 
tious avoidance  of  her,  and  resolved  to  call  upon  her  that 
very  evening.  And  when  he  reached  his  lodging  he 
found  a  note  from  her — a  first  note — one  of  those  docu- 
ments which,  simple  and  commonplace  in  themselves,  are 
seen  retrospectively  to  have  been  pregnant  with  impas- 
sioned consequences.  The  very  unconsciousness  of  a 
s 


114  JUDE  THE  OBSCURE 

looming  drama  which  is  shown  in  such  innocent  first 
epistles  from  women  to  men,  or  vice  versa,  makes  them, 
when  such  a  drama  follows,  and  they  are  read  over  by 
the  purple  or  lurid  light  of  it,  all  the  more  impressive, 
solemn,  and,  in  cases,  terrible. 

Sue's  was  of  the  most  artless  and  natural  kind.  She 
addressed  him  as  her  dear  cousin  Jude  ;  said  she  had 
only  just  learned  by  the  merest  accident  that  he  was  liv- 
ing in  Christminster,  and  reproached  him  with  not  letting 
her  know.  They  might  have  had  such  nice  times  togeth- 
er, she  said,  for  she  was  thrown  much  upon  herself,  and 
had  hardly  any  congenial  friend.  But  now  there  was 
every  probability  of  her  soon  going  away,  so  that  the 
chance  of  companionship  would  be  lost  perhaps  forever. 

A  cold  sweat  overspread  Jude  at  the  news  that  she 
was  going  away.  That  was  a  contingency  he  had  never 
thought  of,  and  it  spurred  him  to  write  all  the  more 
quickly  to  her.  He  would  meet  her  that  very  evening, 
he  said,  one  hour  from  the  time  of  writing,  at  the  cross  in 
the  pavement  which  marked  the  spot  of  the  martyrdoms. 

When  he  had  despatched  the  note  by  a  boy  he  regretted 
that  in  his  hurry  he  should  have  suggested  to  her  to  meet 
him  out-of-doors,  when  he  might  have  said  he  would  call 
upon  her.  It  was,  in  fact,  the  country  custom  to  meet 
thus,  and  nothing  else  had  occurred  to  him.  Arabella 
had  been  met  in  the  same  way,  unfortunately,  and  it  might 
not  seem  respectable  to  a  dear  girl  like  Sue.  However,  it 
could  not  be  helped  now,  and  he  moved  towards  the  point 
a  few  minutes  before  the  hour,  under  the  glimmer  of  the 
newly-lighted  lamps. 

The  broad  street  was  silent  and  almost  deserted,  al- 
though it  was  not  late.  He  saw  a  figure  on  the  other 
side,  which  turned  out  to  be  hers,  and  they  both  con- 
verged towards  the  cross-mark  at  the  same  moment.  Be- 
fore either  had  reached  it  she  called  out  to  him : 

"  I  am  not  going  to  meet  you  just  there,  for  the  first 
time  in  my  life  !     Come  farther  on." 


i^' 


AT   CHRISTMINSTER  II5 

The  voice,  though  positive  and  silvery,  had  been  trem- 
ulous. They  walked  on  in  parallel  lines,  and,  waiting  her 
pleasure,  Jude  watched  till  she  showed  signs  of  closing  in, 
when  he  did  likewise,  the  place  being  where  the  carriers' 
carts  stood  in  the  daytime,  though  there  were  none  on 
the  spot  then. 

"  I  am  sorry  that  I  asked  you  to  meet  me,  and  didn't 
call,"  began  Jude,  with  the  bashfulness  of  a  lover.  "  But 
I  thought  it  would  save  time  if  we  were  going  to  walk." 

"  Oh — I  don't  mind  that,"  she  said,  with  the  freedom  of 
a  friend.  "  I  have  really  no  place  to  ask  anybody  in  to. 
What  I  meant  was  that  the  place  you  chose  was  so  horrid 
— I  suppose  I  ought  not  to  say  horrid— I  mean  gloomy 
and  inauspicious.  .  .  .  But  isn't  it  funny  to  begin  like  this, 
when  I  don't  know  you  yet }"  She  looked  him  up  and 
down  curiously,  though  Jude  did  not  look  much  at  her. 
"You  seem  to  know  me  more  than  I  know  you,"  she 
added. 

"  Yes — I  have  seen  you  now  and  then." 

"And  you  knew  who  I  was,  and  didn't  speak.'  And 
now  I  am  going  away  !" 

"  Yes.  That's  unfortunate.  I  have  hardly  any  other 
friend.  I  have,  indeed,  one  very  old  friend  here  some- 
where, but  I  don't  quite  like  to  call  on  him  just  yet.  I 
wonder  if  you  know  anything  of  him — Mr.  Phillotson.' 
A  parson  somewhere  about  the  country,  I  think  he  is." 

"  No — I  only  know  of  one  Mr.  Phillotson.  He  lives  a 
little  way  out  in  the  country,  at  Lumsdon.  He's  a  village 
school-master." 

"  Ah  !  I  wonder  if  he's  the  same.  Surely  it  is  impos- 
sible !  Only  a  school -master  still!  Do  you  know  his 
Christian  name — is  it  Richard  ?" 

"Yes — it  is;  I've  directed  books  to  him,  though  I've 
never  seen  him." 

"  Then  he  couldn't  do  it !" 

Jude's  countenance  fell,  for  how  could  he  succeed  in  an 
enterprise  wherein  the  great  Phillotson  had  failed?     He 


Il6  JUDE  THE   OBSCURE 

would  have  had  a  day  of  despair  if  the  news  had  not  ar- 
rived during  his  sweet  Sue's  presence,  but  even  at  this 
moment  he  had  visions  of  how  Phillotson's  failure  in  the 
grand  University  scheme  would  depress  him  when  she 
had  gone. 

"As  we  are  going  to  take  a  walk,  suppose  we  go  and 
call  upon  him  ?"  said  Jude,  suddenly.     "  It  is  not  late." 

She  agreed,  and  they  went  along  up  a  hill,  and  through 
some  prettily  wooded  country.  Presently  the  embattled 
tower  and  square  turret  of  the  church  rose  into  the  sky, 
and  then  the  school-house.  They  inquired  of  a  person  in 
the  street  if  Mr.  Phillotson  was  likely  to  be  at  home,  and 
were  informed  that  he  was  always  at  home.  A  knock 
brought  him  to  the  school-house  door,  with  a  candle  in 
his  hand,  and  a  look  of  inquiry  on  his  face,  which  had 
grown  thin  and  careworn  since  Jude  last  set  eyes  on  him. 

That  after  all  these  years  the  meeting  with  Mr.  Phillot- 
son should  be  of  this  homely  complexion  destroyed  at 
one  stroke  the  halo  which  had  surrounded  the  school- 
master's figure  in  Jude's  imagination  ever  since  their  part- 
ing. It  created  in  him  at  the  same  time  a  sympathy  with 
Phillotson  as  an  obviously  much  chastened  and  disap- 
pointed man.  Jude  told  him  his  name,  and  said  he  had 
come  to  see  him  as  an  old  friend  who  had  been  kind  to 
him  in  his  youthful  days. 

"  I  don't  remember  you  in  the  least,"  said  the  school- 
master, thoughtfully.  "  You  were  one  of  my  pupils,  you 
say.?  Yes,  no  doubt;  but  they  number  so  many  thou- 
sands at  this  time  of  my  life,  and  have  naturally  changed 
so  much,  that  I  remember  very  few  except  the  quite  re- 
cent ones." 

"It  was  out  at  Marygreen,"  said  Jude,  wishing  he  had 
not  come. 

"  Yes.  I  was  there  a  short  time.  And  is  this  an  old 
pupil,  too  }" 

"  No — that's  my  cousin.  ...  I  wrote  to  you  for  some 
grammars,  if  you  recollect,  and  you  sent  them  }" 


"A    KNOCK    BROUGHT    HIM    TO    THE    UOOR " 


1 


i 


f 


%^ 


AT   CHRISTMINSTER  1 17 

"Ah — yes!    I  do  dimly  recall  that  incident." 

"  It  was  very  kind  of  you  to  do  it.  And  it  was  you  who 
first  started  me  on  that  course.  On  the  morning  you  left 
Marygreen,  when  your  goods  were  on  the  wagon,  you 
wished  me  good-bye,  and  said  your  scheme  was  to  be  a 
University  man  and  enter  the  Church  ;  that  a  degree  was 
the  necessary  hall-mark  of  one  who  wanted  to  do  anything 
as  a  theologian  or  teacher." 

"I  remember  I  thought  all  that  privately;  but  I  wonder 
I  did  not  keep  my  own  counsel.  The  idea  was  given  up 
years  ago." 

"  I  have  never  forgotten  it.  It  was  that  which  brought 
me  to  this  part  of  the  country,  and  out  here  to  see  you 
to-night." 

"Come  in,"  said  Phillotson.     "And  your  cousin,  too." 

They  entered  the  parlor  of  the  school  -  house,  where 
there  was  a  lamp  with  a  paper  shade,  which  threw  the 
light  down  on  three  or  four  books.  Phillotson  took  it 
off,  so  that  they  could  see  each  other  better,  and  the  rays 
fell  on  the  nervous  little  face  and  vivacious  dark  eyes  and 
hair  of  Sue,  on  the  earnest  features  of  her  cousin,  and  on 
the  school-master's  own  maturer  face  and  figure,  showing 
him  to  be  a  spare  and  thoughtful  personage  of  five-and- 
forty,  with  a  thin -lipped,  somewhat  refined  mouth,  a 
slightly  stooping  habit,  and  a  black  frock  coat,  which, 
from  continued  frictions,  shone  a  little  at  the  shoulder- 
blades,  the  middle  of  the  back,  and  the  elbows. 

The  old  friendship  was  imperceptibly  renewed,  the 
school -master  speaking  of  his  experiences,  and  the  cous- 
ins of  theirs.  He  told  them  that  he  still  thought  of  the 
Church  sometimes,  and  that  though  he  could  not  enter  it 
as  he  had  intended  to  do  in  former  years,  he  might  enter 
it  as  a  licentiate.  Meanwhile,  he  said,  he  was  comfortable 
in  his  present  position,  though  he  was  in  want  of  a  pupil- 
teacher. 

They  did  not  stay  to  supper,  Sue  having  to  be  in-doors 
before  it  grew  late,  and  the  road  was  retraced  to  Christ- 


(^ 


JUDE  THE  OBSCURE 


7 


minster.  Though  they  had  talked  of  nothing  more  than 
general  subjects,  Jude  was  surprised  to  find  what  a  revela- 
tion of  woman  his  cousin  was  to  him.  She  was  sojvibrant 
that  everything  she  did  seemed  to  have  its  source  in  feel- 
ing. An  exciting  thought  would  make  her  walk  ahead  so 
fast  that  he  could  hardly  keep  up  with  her;  and  her  sen- 
sitiveness on  some  points  was  such  that  it  might  have 
been  misread  as  vanity.  It  was  with  heart-sickness  he 
perceived  that  while  her  sentiments  towards  him  were 
those  of  the  frankest  friendliness  only,  he  loved  her  more 
than  before  becoming  acquainted  with  her ;  and  the 
gloom  of  the  walk  home  lay  not  in  the  night  overhead, 
but  in  the  thought  of  her  departure. 

"  Why  must  you  leave  Christminster .'"  he  said,  regret- 
fully. "  How  can  you  do  otherwise  than  cling  to  a  city  in 
whose  history  such  men  as  Newman,  Pusey,  Ward,  Keble, 
loom  so  large  !" 

"  Yes — they  do.  Though  how  large  do  they  loom  in 
the  history  of  the  world.'  .  .  .  W^hat  a  funny  reason  for 
caring  to  stay  !  I  should  never  have  thought  of  it !"  she 
laughed.  "  Well— I  must  go."  she  continued.  "  Miss  Font- 
over,  one  of  the  partners  whom  I  serve,  is  ofifended  with 
me,  and  I  with  her ;  and  it  is  best  to  go." 

"  How  did  that  happen  }" 

"  She  broke  some  statuary  of  mine." 

"Oh!     Wilfully?" 

"  Yes.  She  found  it  in  my  room,  and  though  it  was 
my  property,  she  threw  it  on  the  floor  and  stamped  on  it, 
because  it  was  not  according  to  her  taste,  and  ground  the 
arms  and  the  head  of  one  of  the  figures  all  to  bits  with 
her  heel — a  horrid  thing  !" 

"  Too  Catholic-Apostolic  for  her,  I  suppose  .-*  No  doubt 
she  called  them  Popish  images,  and  talked  of  the  invoca- 
tions of  saints." 

"No.  .  .  .  No,  she  didn't  do  that.  She  saw  the  matter 
quite  diflerently." 

"  Ah  !     Then  I  am  surprised  !" 


%^' 


AT   CHRISTMINSTER  II9 

"  Yes.  It  was  for  quite  some  other  reason  that  she  didn't 
like  my  patron  saints.  So  I  was  led  to  retort  upon  her ; 
and  the  end  of  it  was  that  I  resolved  not  to  stay,  but  to 
get  into  an  occupation  in  which  I  shall  be  more  indepen- 
dent." 

"  Why  don't  you  try  teaching  again  }  You  once  did,  I 
heard." 

"  I  never  thought  of  resuming  it ;  for  I  was  getting  on 
as  an  art-designer." 

"  Do  let  me  ask  Mr.  Phillotson  to  let  you  try  your  hand 
in  his  school  }  If  you  like  it,  and  go  to  a  Training  Col- 
lege, and  become  a  first -class  certificated  mistress,  you 
get  twice  as  large  an  income  as  any  designer  or  church 
artist,  and  twice  as  much  freedom." 

"Well — ask  him.  Now  I  must  go  in.  Good-bye,  dear 
Jude !  I  am  so  glad  we  have  met  at  last.  We  needn't 
quarrel  because  our  parents  did,  need  we.'" 

Jude  did  not  like  to  let  her  quite  see  how  much  he 
agreed  with  her,  and  went  his  way  to  the  remote  street  in 
which  he  had  his  lodging. 

To  keep  Sue  Bridehead  near  him  was  now  a  desire 
which  operated  without  regard  of  consequences,  and  the 
next  evening  he  again  set  out  for  Lumsdon,  fearing  to 
trust  to  the  persuasive  effects  of  a  note  only.  The  school- 
ma.ster  was  unprepared  for  such  a  proposal. 

"  What  I  rather  wanted  was  a  second  year's  transfer,  as 
it  is  called,"  he  said.  "  Of  course  your  cousin  would  do, 
personally;  but  she  has  had  no  experience.  Oh  —  she 
has,  has  she  ?  Does  she  really  think  of  adopting  teach- 
ing as  a  profession  ?" 

Jude  said  she  was  disposed  to  do  so,  he  thought,  and 
his  ingenious  arguments  on  her  natural  fitness  for  as- 
sisting Mr.  Phillotson,  of  which  Jude  knew  nothing  what- 
ever, so  influenced  the  school  -  master  that  he  said  he 
would  engage  her,  assuring  Jude  as  a  friend  that  unless 
his  cousin  really  meant  to  follow  on  in  the  same  course, 
and  regarded  this  step  as  the  first  stage  of  an  apprentice- 


I20  JUDE   THE   OBSCURE 

ship,  of  which  her  training  in  a  normal  school  would  be 
the  second  stage,  her  time  would  be  wasted  quite,  the  sal- 
ary being  merely  nominal. 

The  day  after  this  visit  Phillotson  received  a  letter 
from  Jude,  containing  the  information  that  he  had  again 
consulted  his  cousin,  who  took  more  and  more  warmly 
to  the  idea  of  tuition,  and  that  she  had  agreed  to  come. 
It  did  not  occur  for  a  moment  to  the  school-master  and 
recluse  that  Jude's  ardor  in  promoting  the  arrangement  j 

arose  from  any  other  feelings  towards  Sue  than  the  in-  1 

stinct  of  co-operation  common  among  members  of  the 
same  family. 


«_♦ 


V 

The  school-master  sat  in  his  homely  dwelling  attached 
to  the  school,  both  being  modern  erections,  and  he 
looked  across  the  way  at  the  old  house  in  which  his 
teacher  Sue  had  a  lodging.  The  arrangement  had  been 
concluded  very  quickly.  A  pupil -teacher  who  was  to 
have  been  transferred  to  Mr.  Phillotson's  school  had  failed 
him,  and  Sue  had  been  taken  as  stop-gap.  All  such  pro- 
visional arrangements  as  these  could  only  last  till  the 
next  annual  visit  of  H.  M.  Inspector,  whose  approval  was 
necessary  to  make  them  permanent.  Having  taught  for 
some  two  years  in  London,  though  she  had  abandoned 
that  vocation  of  late,  Miss  Bridehead  was  not  exactly  an 
outsider,  and  Phillotson  thought  there  would  be  no  dif- 
ficulty in  retaining  her  services,  which  he  already  wished 
to  do,  though  she  had  only  been  with  him  three  or  four 
weeks.  He  had  found  her  quite  as  bright  as  Jude  had 
described  her;  and  what  master-tradesman  docs  not  wish 
to  keep  an  apprentice  who  saves  him  half  his  labor.' 

It  was  a  little  over  half-past  eight  o'clock  in  the  morn- 
ing, and  he  was  waiting  to  see  her  cross  the  road  to  the 
school,  when  he  would  follow.  At  twenty  minutes  to 
nine  she  did  cross,  a  light  hat  tossed  on  her  head,  and  he 
watched  her  as  a  curiosity.  A  new  emanation,  which  had 
nothing  to  do  with  her  skill  as  a  teacher,  seemed  to  sur- 
round her  this  morning.  He  went  to  the  school  also, 
and  Sue  remained  governing  her  class  at  the  other  end  of 
the  room,  all  day  under  his  eye.  She  certainly  was  an  ex- 
cellent teacher. 

It  was  part  of  his  duty  to  give  her  private  lessons  in 


122  JUDE  THE   OBSCURE 

the  evening,  and  some  article  in  the  Code  made  it  neces- 
sary that  a  respectable,  elderly  woman  should  be  present 
at  these  lessons  when  the  teacher  and  the  taught  were  of 
different  sexes.  Richard  Phillotson  thought  of  the  ab- 
surdity of  the  regulation  in  this  case,  when  he  was  old 
enough  to  be  the  girl's  father;  but  he  faithfully  acted  up 
to  it,  and  sat  down  with  her  in  a  room  where  Mrs. 
Hawes,  the  widow  at  whose  house  Sue  lodged,  occupied 
herself  with  sewing.  The  regulation  was,  indeed,  not  easy 
to  evade,  for  there  was  no  other  sitting-room  in  the 
dwelling. 

Sometimes  as  she  figured — it  was  arithmetic  that  they 
were  working  at — she  would  involuntarily  glance  up  with 
a  little  inquiring  smile  at  him,  as  if  she  assumed  that, 
being  the  master,  he  must  perceive  all  that  was  passing 
in  her  brain,  as  right  or  wrong.  Phillotson  was  not 
really  thinking  of  the  arithmetic  at  all,  but  of  her,  in  a 
novel  way  which  somehow  seemed  strange  to  him  as  pre- 
ceptor. Perhaps  she  knew  that  he  was  thinking  of  her 
thus. 

For  a  few  weeks  their  work  had  gone  on  with  a  monot- 
ony which  in  itself  was  a  delight  to  him.  Then  it  hap- 
pened that  the  children  were  to  be  taken  to  Christminster 
to  see  an  itinerant  exhibition,  in  the  shape  of  a  model  of 
Jerusalem,  to  which  schools  were  admitted  at  a  penny  a 
head  in  the  interests  of  education.  They  marched  along 
the  road  two  and  two,  she  beside  her  class  with  her  sim- 
ple cotton  sunshade,  her  little  thumb  cocked  up  against 
its  stem ;  and  Phillotson  behind,  in  his  long  dangling 
coat,  handling  his  walking-stick  genteelly,  in  the  musing 
mood  which  had  come  over  him  since  her  arrival.  The 
afternoon  was  one  of  sun  and  dust,  and  when  they  en- 
tered the  exhibition-room  few  people  were  present  but 
themselves. 

The  model  of  the  ancient  city  stood  in  the  middle  of 
the  apartment,  and  the  proprietor,  with  a  fine  religious 
philanthropy  written   on  his    features,  walked  round    it 


J-,' 


AT   CHRISTMINSTER  I  23 

with  a  pointer  in  his  hand,  showing  the  young  people  the 
various  quarters  and  places  known  to  them  by  name  from 
reading  their  Bibles :  Mount  Moriah,  the  Valley  of  Jehosh- 
aphat,  the  City  of  Zion,  the  walls  and  the  gates,  outside 
one  of  which  there  was  a  large  mound  like  a  tumulus,  and 
on  the  mound  a  little  white  cross.  The  spot,  he  said, 
was  Calvary. 

"  I  think,"  said  Sue  to  the  school-master,  as  she  stood 
with  him  a  little  in  the  background,"  that  this  model, 
elaborate  as  it  is,  is  a  very  imaginary  production.  How 
does  anybody  know  that  Jerusalem  was  like  this  in  the 
time  of  Christ?     I  am  sure  this  man  doesn't.'' 

"  It  is  made  after  the  best  conjectural  maps,  based  on 
actual  visits  to  the  city  as  it  now  exists." 

"  I  fancy  we  have  had  enough  of  Jerusalem,"  she  said, 
"  considering  we  are  not  descended  from  the  J  ews.  There 
was  nothing  first  -  rate  about  the  place,  or  people,  after 
all — as  there  was  about  Athens,  Rome,  Alexandria,  and 
other  old  cities." 

"  But,  my  dear  girl,  consider  what  it  is  to  us !" 

She  was  silent,  for  she  was  easily  repressed  ;  and  then 
perceived  behind  tlie  group  of  children  clustered  round 
the  model  a  young  man  in  a  white  flannel  jacket,  his 
form  being  bent  so  low  in  his  intent  inspection  of  the 
Valley  of  Jehoshaphat  that  he  was  almost  hidden  from 
view  by  the  Mount  of  Olives.  "  Look  at  your  cousin 
Jude,"  continued  the  school-master.  "  He  doesn't  think 
wc  have  had  enough  of  Jerusalem  !" 

"Ah — I  didn't  see  him!"  she  cried,  in  her  quick  light 
voice.     "  Jude — how  seriously  you  arc  going  into  it  I" 

Jude  started  up  from  his  reverie,  and  saw  her.  "  Oh — 
Sue !"  he  said,  with  a  glad  flush  of  embarrassment. 
"These  are  your  school-children,  of  course!  I  saw  that 
schools  were  admitted  in  the  afternoons,  and  thought  you 
might  come;  but  I  got  so  deeply  interested  that  I  didn't 
remember  where  I  was.  How  it  carries  one  back,  doesn't 
it?     I  could  examine  it  for  hours,  but  I  have  only  a  few 


124  JUDE  THE  OBSCURE 

minutes,  unfortunately,  for  I  am  in  the  middle  of  a  job 
out  here." 

"  Your  cousin  is  so  terribly  clever  that  she  criticises  it 
unmercifully,"  said  Phillotson,  with  good-humored  satire. 
"  She  is  quite  sceptical  as  to  its  correctness." 

"No,  Mr.  Phillotson,  I  am  not — altogether!  1  hate  to 
be  what  is  called  a  clever  girl — there  are  too  many  of  that 
sort  now !"  answered  Sue,  sensitively.  "  I  only  meant — 
I  don't  know  what  I  meant — except  that  it  was  what  you 
don't  understand  I" 

"/  know  your  meaning,"  said  Jude,  ardently  (although 
he  did  not).     "And  I  think  you  are  quite  right." 

"  That's  a  good  Jude — I  know  _you  believe  in  me  !"  She 
impulsively  seized  his  hand,  and  leaving  a  reproachful 
look  on  the  school-master  turned  away  to  Jude,  her  voice 
revealing  a  tremor  which  she  herself  felt  to  be  absurdly 
uncalled  for  by  sarcasm  so  gentle.  She  had  not  the  least 
conception  how  the  hearts  of  the  twain  went  out  to  her 
at  this  momentary  revelation  of  feeling,  and  what  a  com- 
plication she  was  building  up  thereby  in  the  futures  of 
both. 

The  model  wore  too  much  of  an  educational  aspect  for 
the  children  not  to  tire  of  it  soon,  and  a  little  later  in  the 
afternoon  they  were  all  marched  back  to  Lumsdon,  Jude 
returning  to  his  work.  He  watched  the  juvenile  flock,  in 
their  clean  frocks  and  pinafores,  filing  down  the  street 
towards  the  country  beside  Phillotson  and  Sue,  and  a  sad, 
dissatisfied  sense  of  being  out  of  the  scheme  of  the  latters' 
lives  had  possession  of  him.  Phillotson  had  invited  him 
to  walk  out  and  see  them  on  Friday  evening,  when  there 
would  be  no  lessons  to  give  to  Sue,  and  Jude  had  eagerly 
promised  to  avail  himself  of  the  opportunity. 

Meanwhile  the  scholars  and  teachers  moved  homeward, 
and  the  next  day,  on  looking  on  the  black-board  in  Sue's 
class,  Phillotson  was  surprised  to  find  upon  it,  skilfully 
drawn  in  chalk,  a  perspective  view  of  Jerusalem,  with 
every  building  shown  in  its  place. 


j:_ 


AT   CHRISTMINSTER  125 

"  I  thought  you  took  no  interest  in  the  model,  and 
hardly  looked  at  it  ?"  he  said. 

"  I  hardly  did,"  said  she,  "  but  I  remembered  that  much 
of  it." 

"  It  is  more  than  I  had  remembered  myself." 

Her  Majesty's  school-inspector  was  at  that  time  paying 
"surprise-visits"  in  this  neighborhood  to  test  the  teach- 
ing unawares;  and  two  days  later,  in  the  middle  of  the 
morning  lessons,  the  latch  of  the  door  was  softly  lifted, 
and  in  walked  my  gentleman,  the  king  of  terrors — to  pupil 
teachers. 

To  Mr.  Phillotson  the  surprise  was  not  great;  like  the 
lady  in  the  story,  he  had  been  played  that  trick  too  many 
times  to  be  unprepared.  But  Sue's  class  was  at  the  far- 
ther end  of  the  room,  and  her  back  was  towards  the  en- 
trance ;  the  inspector,  therefore,  came  and  stood  behind 
her  and  watched  her  teaching  some  half- minute  before 
she  became  aware  of  his  presence.  She  turned,  and  real- 
ized that  an  oft-dreaded  moment  had  come.  The  effect 
upon  her  timidity  was  such  that  she  uttered  a  cry  of  fright. 
Phillotson,  with  a  strange  instinct  of  solicitude  quite  be- 
yond his  control,  was  at  her  side  just  in  time  to  prevent 
her  falling  from  faintness.  She  soon  recovered  herself, 
and  laughed  ;  but  when  the  inspector  had  gone  there  was 
a  reaction,  and  she  was  so  white  that  Phillotson  took  her 
into  his  room,  and  gave  her  some  brandy  to  bring  her 
round.  She  found  him  holding  her  hand.  "You  ought 
to  have  told  me,"  she  gasped,  petulantly,  "  that  one  of  the 
inspector's  surprise-visits  was  imminent !  Oh,  what  shall 
I  do  !  Now  he'll  write  and  tell  the  managers  that  I  am 
no  good,  and  I  shall  be  disgraced  forever  !" 

"He  won't  do  that,  my  dear  little  girl.  You  are  the 
best  teacher  ever  I  had  !" 

He  looked  so  gently  at  her  that  she  was  moved,  and 
regretted  that  she  had  upbraided  him.  When  she  was 
better  she  went  home. 

Jude  in  the  mean  time  had  been  waiting  impatiently  for 


126  JUDE  THE  OBSCURE 

Friday.  On  both  Wednesday  and  Thursday  he  had  been 
so  much  under  the  influence  of  his  desire  to  see  her  that 
he  walked  after  dark  some  distance  along  the  road  in  the 
direction  of  the  village,  and,  on  returning  to  his  room  to 
read,  found  himself  quite  unable  to  concentrate  his  mind 
on  the  page.  On  Friday,  as  soon  as  he  had  got  himself 
up  as  he  thought  Sue  would  like  to  see  him,  and  made  a 
hasty  tea,  he  set  out,  notwithstanding  that  the  evening 
was  wet.  The  trees  overhead  deepened  the  gloom  of  the 
hour,  and  they  dripped  sadly  upon  him,  Impressing  him 
with  forebodings  —  illogical  forebodings,  for  though  he 
knew  that  he  loved  her,  he  also  knew  that  he  could  not 
be  more  to  her  than  he  was. 

On  turning  the  corner  and  entering  the  village  the  first 
sight  that  greeted  his  eyes  was  that  of  two  figures  under 
one  umbrella  coming  out  of  the  vicarage  gate.  He  was 
too  far  back  for  them  to  notice  him,  but  he  knew  in  a 
moment  that  they  were  Sue  and  Phillotson.  The  latter 
was  holding  the  umbrella  over  her  head,  and  they  had 
evidently  been  paying  a  visit  to  the  vicar — probably  on 
some  business  connected  with  the  school-work.  And  as 
they  walked  along  the  wet  and  deserted  lane,  Jude  saw 
Phillotson  place  his  arm  round  the  girl's  waist,  where- 
upon she  gently  removed  it ;  but  he  replaced  it ;  and  she 
let  it  remain,  looking  quickly  round  her  with  an  air  of 
misgiving.  She  did  not  look  absolutely  behind  her,  and 
therefore  did  not  see  Jude,  who  sank  into  the  hedge  like 
one  struck  with  a  blight.  There  he  remained  hidden  till 
they  had  reached  Sue's  cottage  and  she  had  passed  in, 
Phillotson  going  on  to  the  school  hard  by. 

"Oh,  he's  too  old  for  her— too  old  !"  cried  Jude,  in  all 
the  terrible  sickness  of  hopeless,  handicapped  love. 

He  could  not  interfere.  Was  he  not  Arabella's.'  He 
was  unable  to  go  on  farther,  and  retraced  his  steps  tow- 
ards Christminster.  Every  tread  of  his  feet  seemed  to 
say  to  him  that  he  must  on  no  account  stand  in  the 
school-master's  way  with  Sue.     Phillotson  was  perhaps 


AT   CHRISTMINSTER  1 27 

twenty  years  her  senior,  but  many  a  happy  marriage  had 
been  made  in  such  conditions  of  age.  The  ironical  cHnch 
to  his  sorrow  was  given  by  the  thought  that  the  intimacy 
between  his  cousin  and  the  school  -  master  had  been 
brought  about  entirely  by  himself. 


VI 

Jude's  old  and  embittered  aunt  lay  unwell  at  Mary- 
green,  and  on  the  following  Sunday  he  went  to  see  her — 
a  visit  which  was  the  result  of  a  victorious  struggle  against 
his  inclination  to  turn  aside  to  the  village  of  Lumsdon 
and  obtain  a  miserable  interview  with  his  cousin,  in  which 
the  word  nearest  his  heart  could  not  be  spoken,  and  the 
sight  which  had  tortured  him  could  not  be  revealed. 

His  aunt  was  now  unable  to  leave  her  bed,  and  a  great 
part  of  Jude's  short  day  was  occupied  in  making  arrange- 
ments for  her  comfort.  The  little  bakery  business  had 
been  sold  to  a  neighbor,  and  with  the  proceeds  of  this 
and  her  savings  she  was  comfortably  supplied  with  nec- 
essaries, and  more,  a  widow  of  the  same  village  living 
with  her  and  ministering  to  her  wants.  It  was  not  till 
the  time  had  nearly  come  for  him  to  leave  that  he  ob- 
tained a  quiet  talk  with  her,  and  his  words  tended  in- 
sensibly towards  his  cousin. 

"Was  Sue  born  here.''" 

"She  was  —  in  this  room.  They  were  living  here  at 
that  time.     What  made  'ee  ask  that.^" 

"  Oh — I  wanted  to  know." 

"Now  you've  been  seeing  her!"  said  the  harsh  old 
woman.     "And  what  did  I  tell  'ee .''" 

"  Well— that  I  was  not  to  see  her." 

"  Have  you  gossiped  with  her .''" 

"Yes." 

"Then  don't  keep  it  up.  She  w'as  brought  up  by  her 
father  to  hate  her  mother's  family ;  and  she'll  look  with 
no  favor  upon  a  working  chap  like  you— a  townish  girl  as 


1_' 


AT   CHRISTMINSTER  1 29 

she's  become  by  now.  I  never  cared  much  about  her. 
A  pert  little  thing,  that's  what  she  was  too  often,  with 
her  tight-strained  nerves.  Many's  the  time  I've  smacked 
her  for  her  impertinence.  Why,  one  day  when  she  was 
walking  into  the  pond  with  her  shoes  and  stockings  off, 
and  her  petticoats  pulled  above  her  knees,  afore  I  could 
cry  out  for  shame,  she  said  :  '  Move  on,  aunty !  This  is 
no  sight  for  modest  eyes  !'  " 

"  She  was  a  little  child  then." 

"  She  was  twelve  if  a  day." 

"Well  —  of  course.  But  now  she's  older  she's  of  a 
thoughtful,  quivering,  tender  nature,  and  as  sensitive  as — " 

"Jude!"  cried  his  aunt,  springing  up  in  bed.  "Don't 
you  be  a  fool  about  her !" 

"No,  no,  of  course  not." 

"Your  marrying  that  woman  Arabella  was  about  as 
bad  a  thing  as  a  man  could  possibly  do  for  himself  by 
trying  hard.  But  she's  gone  to  the  other  side  of  the 
world,  and  med  never  trouble  you  again.  And  there'll 
be  a  worse  thing  if  you,  tied  and  bound  as  you  be,  should 
have  a  fancy  for  Sue.  If  your  cousin  is  civil  to  you,  take 
her  civility  for  what  it  is  worth.  But  anything  more  than 
a  relation's  good  wishes  it  is  stark  madness  for  ye  to  give 
her.  If  she's  townish  and  wanton,  it  med  bring  'ee  to 
ruin." 

"  Don't  say  anything  against  her,  aunt !    Don't,  please  !" 

A  relief  was  afforded  to  him  by  the  entry  of  the  com- 
panion and  nurse  of  his  aunt,  who  must  have  been  listen- 
ing to  the  conversation,  for  she  began  a  commentary  on 
past  years,  introducing  Sue  Bridehead  as  a  character  in 
her  recollections.  She  described  what  an  odd  little  maid 
Sue  had  been  v/hcn  a  pupil  at  the  village  school  across 
the  green  opposite,  before  her  father  went  to  London- 
how,  when  the  vicAr  arranged  readings  and  recitations, 
she  appeared  on  the  platform,  the  smallest  of  them  all, 
"  in  her  little  white  frock, and  shoes, and  pink  sash";  how 
she  recited  "  Excelsior,"  "  There  was  a  sound  of  revelry  by 
9 


130  JUDE  THE  OBSCURE 

night,"  and  Poe's  "  Raven";  how  during  the  delivery  she 
would  knit  her  little  brows  and  glare  round  tragically,  and 
say  to  the  empty  air,  as  if  some  real  creature  stood  there, 

"  Ghastly,  grim,  and  ancient  Raven, 
Tell  me  what  thy  lordly  name  is 
On  the  night's  Plutonian  shore  '." 

"  She'd  bring  up  the  nasty  carrion  bird  that  clear,"  cor- 
roborated the  sick  woman,  reluctantly,  "  as  she  stood  there 
in  her  little  sash  and  things,  that  you  could  see  un  a'most 
before  your  very  eyes.  You  too,  Jude,  had  the  same  trick 
as  a  child  of  seeming  to  see  things  in  the  air." 

The  neighbor  told  also  of  Sue's  accomplishments  in 
other  kinds  : 

"  She  was  not  exactly  a  tomboy,  you  know  ;  but  she 
could  do  things  that  only  boys  do,  as  a  rule.  I've  seen 
her  hit  in  and  steer  down  the  long  slide  on  yonder  pond, 
with  her  little  curls  blowing,  one  of  a  file  of  twenty  mov- 
ing along  against  the  sky  like  shapes  painted  on  glass, 
and  up  the  back  slide  without  stopping.  All  boys  except 
herself ;  and  then  they'd  cheer  her,  and  then  she'd  say, 
'Don't  be  saucy,  boys,'  and  suddenly  run  in -doors. 
They'd  try  to  coax  her  out  again.    But  'a  wouldn't  come." 

These  retrospective  visions  of  Sue  only  made  Jude  the 
more  miserable  that  he  was  unable  to  woo  her,  and  he 
left  the  cottage  of  his  aunt  that  day  with  a  heavy  heart. 
He  would  fain  have  glanced  into  the  school  to  see  the 
room  in  which  Sue's  little  figure  had  so  glorified  itself; 
but  he  checked  his  desire  and  went  on. 

It  being  Sunday  evening,  some  villagers  who  had  known 
him  during  his  residence  here  were  standing  in  a  group 
in  their  best  clothes.  Jude  was  startled  by  a  salute  from 
one  of  them  : 

"  Ye've  got  there  right  enough,  then  !" 

Jude  showed  that  he  did  not  understand. 

"  Why,  to  the  seat  of  I'arning — the  '  City  of  Light '  you 


AT   CHRISTMINSTER  I3I 

used  to  talk  to  us  about  as  a  little  boy  ?  Is  it  all  you  ex- 
pected of  it?" 

"Yes;  more!"  cried  Jude. 

"When  I  was  there  once  for  an  hour  I  didn't  see  much 
in  it  for  my  part;  auld  crumbling  buildings,  half-church, 
half-almshouse,  and  not  much  going  on  at  that." 

"  You  are  wrong,  John  ;  there  is  more  going  on  than 
meets  the  eye  of  a  man  walking  through  the  streets.  It 
is  a  unique  centre  of  thought  and  religion  —  the  intel- 
lectual and  spiritual  granary  of  this  countrj-.  All  that 
silence  and  absence  of  goings-on  is  the  stillness  of  infinite 
motion — the  sleep  of  the  spinning-top,  to  borrow  the  sim- 
ile of  a  writer." 

"  Oh,  well,  it  med  be  all  that,  or  it  med  not.  As  I  say, 
I  didn't  see  nothing  of  it  the  hour  or  two  I  was  there ;  so 
I  went  in  and  had  a  pot  o'  beer,  and  a  penny  loaf,  and  a 
ha'porth  o'  cheese,  and  waited  till  it  was  time  to  come 
along  home.  You've  j'ined  a  College  by  this  time,  I  sup- 
pose .'" 

"Ah,  no!"  said  Jude.  "  I  am  almost  as  far  off  that  as 
ever." 

"  How  so?" 

Jude  slapped  his  pocket. 

"Just  what  we  thought !  Such  places  be  not  for  such 
as  you — only  for  them  with  plenty  o'  money." 

"There  you  are  wrong,"  said  Jude,  with  some  bitter- 
ness.    "  They  are  for  such  ones  !" 

Still,  the  remark  was  sufficient  to  withdraw  Jude's  at- 
tention from  the  imaginative  world  he  had  lately  inhab- 
ited, in  which  an  abstract  figure,  more  or  less  himself, 
was  steeping  his  mind  in  a  sublimation  of  the  arts  and 
sciences,  and  making  his  calling  and  election  sure  to  a 
seat  in  the  paradise  of  the  learned.  He  was  set  regard- 
ing his  prospects  in  a  cold  northern  light.  He  had  lately 
felt  that  he  could  not  quite  satisfy  himself  in  his  Greek — 
in  the  Greek  of  the  dramatists  particularly.  So  fatigued 
was  he  sometimes  after  his  day's  work  that  he  could  not 


133  JUDE  THE  OBSCURE 

maintain  the  critical  attention  necessary  for  thorough  ap- 
plication. He  felt  that  he  wanted  a  coach — a  friend  at 
his  elbow  to  tell  him  in  a  moment  what  sometimes  would 
occupy  him  a  weary  month  in  extracting  from  unantici- 
pative,  clumsy  books. 

It  was  decidedly  necessary  to  consider  facts  a  little 
more  closely  than  he  had  done  of  late.  What  was  the 
good,  after  all,  of  using  up  his  spare  hours  in  a  vague  labor 
called  "  private  study "  without  giving  an  outlook  on 
practicabilities.'* 

"  I  ought  to  have  thought  of  this  before,"  he  said,  as  he 
journeyed  back.  "  It  would  have  been  better  never  to  have 
embarked  in  the  scheme  at  all  than  to  do  it  without  see- 
ing clearly  where  I  am  going,  or  what  I  am  aiming  at. 
.  .  .  This  hovering  outside  the  walls  of  the  colleges,  as  if 
expecting  some  arm  to  be  stretched  out  from  them  to  lift 
me  inside,  won't  do  !     I  must  get  special  information." 

The  next  week  accordingly  he  sought  it.  What  at  first 
seemed  an  opportunity  occurred  one  afternoon  when  he 
saw  an  elderly  gentleman,  who  had  been  pointed  out  as 
the  Head  of  a  particular  College,  walking  in  the  public 
path  of  a  parklike  enclosure  near  the  spot  at  which  Jude 
chanced  to  be  sitting.  The  gentleman  came  nearer,  and 
Jude  looked  anxiously  at  his  face.  It  seemed  benign,  con- 
siderate, yet  rather  reserved.  On  second  thoughts  Jude 
felt  that  he  could  not  go  up  and  address  him  ;  but  he  was 
sufficiently  influenced  by  the  incident  to  think  what  a 
wise  thing  it  would  be  for  him  to  state  his  difficulties  by 
letter  to  some  of  the  best  and  most  judicious  of  these  old 
masters,  and  obtain  their  advice. 

During  the  next  week  or  two  he  accordingly  placed 
himself  in  such  positions  about  the  city  as  would  afford 
him  glimpses  of  several  of  the  most  distinguished  among 
the  Provosts,  Wardens,  and  other  Heads  of  Houses ;  and 
from  those  he  saw  he  ultimately  selected  five  whose  phys- 
iognomies seemed  to  say  to  him  that  they  were  apprecia- 
tive and  far-seeing  men.    To  these  five  he  addressed  let- 


AT   CHRISTMINSTER  1 33 

ters,  briefly  stating  his  difficulties,  and  asking  their  opinion 
on  his  stranded  situation. 

When  the  letters  were  posted,  Jude  mentally  began  to 
criticise  them;  he  wished  they  had  not  been  sent.  "It  is 
just  one  of  those  intrusive,  vulgar,  pushing  applications 
which  are  so  common  in  these  days,"  bethought.  "  Why 
couldn't  I  know  better  than  address  utter  strangers  in 
such  a  way.^  I  may  be  an  impostor,  an  idle  scamp,  a 
man  with  a  bad  character,  for  all  that  they  know  to  the 
contrary.  .  .  .  Perhaps  that's  what  I  am  !" 

Nevertheless,  he  found  himself  clinging  to  the  hope  of 
some  reply  as  to  his  one  last  chance  of  redemption.  He 
waited  day  after  day,  saying  that  it  was  perfectly  absurd 
to  expect,  yet  expecting.  While  he  waited  he  was  sud- 
denly stirred  by  news  about  Phillotson.  Phillotson  was 
giving  up  the  school  near  Christminster  for  a  larger  one 
farther  south,  in  Mid-Wessex.  What  this  meant;  how  it 
would  afifect  his  cousin;  whether,  as  seemed  possible,  it 
was  a  practical  move  of  the  school-master's  towards  a 
larger  income,  in  view  of  a  provision  for  two  instead  of 
one— he  would  not  allow  himself  to  say.  And  the  tender 
relations  between  Phillotson  and  the  young  girl  of  whom 
Jude  was  passionately  enamored  effectually  made  it  re- 
pugnant to  Jude's  tastes  to  apply  to  Phillotson  for  advice 
on  his  own  scheme. 

Meanwhile  the  academic  dignitaries  to  whom  Jude  had 
written  vouchsafed  no  answer,  and  the  young  man  was 
thus  thrown  back  entirely  on  himself,  as  formerly,  with 
the  added  gloom  of  a  weakened  hope.  By  indirect  in- 
quiries he  soon  perceived  clearly,  what  he  had  long  un- 
easily suspected,  that  to  qualify  himself  for  certain  open 
scholarships  and  exhibitions  was  the  only  brilliant  course. 
But  to  do  this  a  good  deal  of  coaching  would  be  neces- 
sary, and  much  natural  ability.  It  was  next  to  impossi- 
ble that  a  man  reading  on  his  own  system,  however  wide- 
ly and  thoroughly,  even  over  the  prolonged  period  of  ten 
years,  should  be  able   to  compete  with  those  who  had 


P 


134  JUDE  THE   OBSCURE 

passed  their  lives  under  trained  teachers  and  had  worked 
to  ordained  lines. 

The  other  course,  that  of  buying  himself  in,  so  to  speak, 
seemed  the  only  one  really  open  to  men  like  him,  the 
difficulty  being  simply  of  a  material  kind.  With  the  help 
of  his  information  he  began  to  reckon  the  extent  of  this 
material  obstacle,  and  ascertained,  to  his  dismay,  that,  at 
the  rate  at  which,  with  the  best  of  fortune,  he  would  be 
able  to  save  money,  fifteen  years  must  elapse  before  he 
could  be  in  a  position  to  forward  testimonials  to  the  Head 
of  a  College  and  advance  to  a  matriculation  examination. 
The  undertaking  was  hopeless. 

He  saw  what  a  curious  and  cunning  glamour  the  neigh- 
borhood of  the  place  had  exercised  over  him.  To  get 
there  and  live  there,  to  move  among  the  churches  and 
halls  and  become  imbued  with  the ^^,'67////^  loci,  had  seemed 
to  his  dreaming  youth,  as  the  spot  shaped  its  charms  to 
him  from  its  halo  on  the  horizon,  the  obvious  and  ideal 
thing  to  do.  "Let  me  only  get  there,"  he  had  said  with 
the  fatuousness  of  Crusoe  over  his  big  boat,  "and  the  rest 
is  but  a  matter  of  time  and  energ3^"  It  would  have  been 
far  better  for  him  in  every  way  if  he  had  never  come  with- 
in sight  and  sound  of  the  delusive  precincts,  had  gone  to 
some  busy  commercial  town  with  the  sole  object  of  mak- 
ing money  by  his  wits,  and  thence  surveyed  his  plan  in 
true  perspective.  Well,  all  that  was  clear  to  him  amount- 
ed to  this,  that  the  whole  scheme  had  burst  up,  like  an 
iridescent  soap-bubble,  under  the  touch  of  a  reasoned  in- 
quiry. He  looked  back  at  himself  along  the  vista  of  his 
past  years,  and  his  thought  was  akin  to  Heine's  : 

"Above  the  youtli's  inspired  and  flashing  eyes 
I  see  tlie  motley  mocking  fool's-cap  rise." 

Fortunately  he  had  not  been  allowed  to  bring  his  dis- 
appointment into  his  dear  Sue's  life  by  involving  her  in 
this  collapse.     And  the  painful  details  of  his  awakening 


AT    CHRISTMINSTER  1 35 

to  a  sense  of  his  limitations  should  now  be  spared  her  as 
far  as  possible.  After  all,  she  had  only  known  a  little 
part  of  the  miserable  struggle  in  which  he  had  been  en- 
gaged thus  unequipped,  poor,  and  unforeseeing. 

He  always  remembered  the  appearance  of  the  afternoon 
on  which  he  awoke  from  his  dream.  Not  quite  knowing 
what  to  do  with  himself,  he  went  up  to  an  octagonal 
chamber  in  the  lantern  of  a  singularly  built  theatre  that 
was  set  amidst  this  quaint  and  singular  city.  It  had  win- 
dows all  round,  from  which  an  outlook  over  the  whole 
town  and  its  edifices  could  be  gained.  Jude's  eyes  swept 
all  the  views  in  succession,  meditatively,  mournfully,  yet 
sturdily.  Those  buildings  and  their  associations  and 
privileges  were  not  for  him.  From  the  roof  of  the  great 
library,  into  which  he  hardly  ever  had  time  to  enter,  his 
gaze  travelled  on  to  the  varied  spires,  halls,  gables, 
streets,  chapels,  gardens,  quadrangles,  which  composed 
the  ensevible  of  this  unriv^alled  panorama.  He  saw  that 
his  destiny  lay  not  with  these,  but  among  the  manual 
toilers  in  the  shabby  purlieu  which  he  himself  occupied, 
unrecognized  as  part  of  the  city  at  all  by  its  visitors  and 
panegyrists,  yet  without  whose  denizens  the  hard  readers 
could  not  read  nor  the  high  thinkers  live. 

He  looked  over  the  town  into  the  country  beyond,  to 
the  trees  which  screened  her  whose  presence  had  at  first 
been  the  support  of  his  heart,  and  whose  loss  was  now 
a  maddening  torture.  But  for  this  blow  he  might  have 
borne  with  his  fate.  With  Sue  as  companion  he  could  have 
renounced  his  ambitions  with  a  smile.  Without  her  it 
was  inevitable  that  the  reaction  from  the  long  strain  to 
which  he  had  subjected  himself  should  affect  him  disas- 
trously. Phillotson  had  no  doubt  passed  through  a  simi- 
lar intellectual  disappointment  to  that  which  now  envel- 
oped him.  Rut  the  school-master  had  been  since  blessed 
with  the  consolation  of  sweet  Sue,  while  for  him  there 
was  no  consoler. 

Descending  to  the  streets,  he  went  listlessly  along  till 


y 


136  JUDE  THE   OBSCURE 

he  arrived  at  an  inn,  and  entered  it.  Here  he  drank  sev- 
eral glasses  of  beer  in  rapid  succession,  and  when  he  came 
out  it  was  night.  By  the  light  of  the  flickering  lamps  he 
rambled  home  to  supper,  and  had  not  long  been  sitting  at 
table  when  his  landlady  brought  up  a  letter  that  had  just 
arrived  for  him.  She  laid  it  down  as  if  impressed  with  a 
sense  of  its  possible  importance,  and  on  looking  at  it  Jude 
perceived  that  it  bore  the  embossed  stamp  of  one  of  the 
Colleges  whose  heads  he  had  addressed.  " 0?ie — at  last!" 
cried  Jude. 

The  communication  was  brief,  and  not  exactly  what  he 
had  expected  ;  though  it  really  was  from  the  Master  in 
person.     It  ran  thus: 

"BiBLiOLL  College. 

"  Sir, — I  have  read  your  letter  with  interest  ;  and,  judging  from 
your  description  of  yourself  as  a  working-man,  I  venture  to  think 
that  you  will  have  a  much  better  chance  of  success  in  life  by  re- 
maining in  your  own  sphere  and  sticking  to  your  trade  than  by 
adopting  any  other  course.  That,  therefore,  is  what  I  advise  you 
to  do.     Yours  faithfully,  T.  Tetuphenay. 

"  To  Mr.  J.  Fawley,  Stone-cutter." 

This  terribly  sensible  advice  exasperated  Jude.  He  had 
known  all  that  before.  He  knew  it  was  true.  Yet  it 
seemed  a  hard  slap  after  ten  years  of  labor,  and  its  effect 
upon  him  just  now  was  to  make  him  rise  recklessly  from 
the  table,  and,  instead  of  reading  as  usual,  to  go  down- 
stairs and  into  the  street.  He  stood  at  a  bar  and  tossed 
off  two  or  three  glasses,  then  unconsciously  sauntered 
along  till  he  came  to  a  spot  called  The  Fourways  in  the 
middle  of  the  city,  gazing  abstractedly  at  the  groups  of 
people  like  one  in  a  trance,  till,  coming  to  himself,  he 
began  talking  to  the  policeman  fixed  there. 

That  officer  yawned,  stretched  out  his  elbows,  elevated 
himself  an  inch  and  a  half  on  the  balls  of  his  toes,  smiled, 
and,  looking  humorously  at  Jude,  said,  "  You've  had  a  wet, 
young  man." 


AT   CHRISTMINSTER  137 

"  No  ;  I've  only  begun,"  he  replied,  cynically. 

Whatever  his  wetness,  his  brains.were  dry  enough.  He 
only  heard  in  part  the  policeman's  further  remarks,  hav- 
ing fallen  into  thought  on  what  struggling  people  like 
himself  had  stood  at  that  Crossway,  whom  nobody  ever 
thought  of  now.  It  had  more  history  than  the  oldest 
college  in  the  city.  It  was  literally  teeming,  stratified, 
with  the  shades  of  human  groups,  who  had  met  there  for 
tragedy, comedy,  farce;  real  enactments  of  the  intensest 
kind.  At  Fourways  men  had  stood  and  talked  of  Napo- 
leon, the  loss  of  America,  the  execution  of  King  Charles, 
the  burning  of  the  Martyrs,  the  Crusades,  the  Norman 
Conquest,  possibly  of  the  arrival  of  Caesar.  Here  the  two 
sexes  had  met  for  loving,  hating,  coupling,  parting;  had 
waited,  had  suffered,  for  each  other  ;  had  triumphed  over 
each  other ;  cursed  each  other  in  jealousy,  blessed  each 
other  in  forgiveness. 

He  besran  to  see  that  the  town  life  was  a  book  of  hu- 
manity  infinitely  more  palpitating,  varied,  and  compendi- 
ous than  the  gown  life.  These  struggling  men  and  womeji^ 
before  him  were  the  reality  of  Christminster,  though  they 
knew  little  of  Christ  or  Minster.  That  was  one  of  "the 
humors  of  things.  The  floating  population  of  students 
and  teachers,  who  did  know  both  in  a  way  were  not  Christ- 
minster in  a  local  sense  at  all. 

He  looked  at  his  watch,  and,  in  pursuit  of  this  idea,  he 
went  on  till  he  came  to  a  public  hall,  where  a  promenade 
concert  was  in  progress.  Jude  entered,  and  found  the 
room  full  of  shop  youths  and  girls,  soldiers,  apprentices, 
boj'^s  of  eleven  smoking  cigarettes,  and  light  women  of 
the  more  respectable  and  amateur  class.  He  had  tapped 
the  real  Christminster  life.  A  band  was  playing,  and  the 
crowd  walked  about  and  jostled  each  other,  and  every 
now  and  then  a  man  got  upon  a  platform  and  sang  a 
comic  song. 

The  spirit  of  Sue  seemed  to  hover  round  him  and  pre- 
vent his  flirting  and  drinking  with  the  frolicsome  girls  who 


138  JUDE   THE  OBSCURE 

made  advances — wistful  to  gain  a  little  joy.  At  ten  o'clock 
he  came  away,  choosing  a  circuitous  route  homeward  to 
pass  the  gates  of  the  College  whose  Head  had  just  sent 
him  the  note. 

The  gates  were  shut,  and,  by  an  impulse,  he  took  from 
his  pocket  a  lump  of  chalk  which,  as  a  workman,  he  usu- 
ally carried  there,  and  wrote  along  the  wall : 

"  /  have  understa7iding  as  well  as  you  ;  I  am  not  inferi- 
or to  you :  yea,  who  knoxveth  not  such  things  as  these?" — 
Job  xii.  3. 


J-,- 


VII 

The  stroke  of  scorn  relieved  his  mind,  and  the  next 
morning  he  laughed  at  his  self-conceit.  But  the  laugh 
was  not  a  healthy  one.  He  re-read  the  letter  from  the 
Master,  and  the  wisdom  in  its  lines,  which  had  at  first  ex- 
asperated him,  chilled  and  depressed  him  now.  He  saw 
himself  as  a  fool  indeed. 

Deprived  of  the  objects  of  both  intellect  and  emotion, 
he  could  not  proceed  to  his  work.  Whenever  he  felt  rec- 
onciled to  his  fate  as  a  student,  there  came  to  disturb  his 
calm  his  hopeless  relations  with  Sue.  That  the  one  af- 
fined soul  he  had  ever  met  was  lost  to  him  through  his 
marriage  returned  upon  him  with  cruel  persistency,  till, 
unable  to  bear  it  longer,  he  again  rushed  for  distraction 
to  the  real  Christminster  life.  He  now  sought  it  out  in 
an  obscure  and  low-ceiled  tavern  up  a  court  which  was 
weTTknowh  to  certain  worthies  of  the  place,  and  in  bright- 
er times  would  have  interested  him  simply  by  its  quaint- 
ness.  Here  he  sat  more  or  less  all  the  day,  convinced 
that  he  was  at  bottom  a  vicious  character,  of  whom  it  was 
hopeless  to  expect  anything. 

In  the  evening  the  frequenters  of  the  house  dropped  in 
one  by  one,  Jude  still  retaining  his  seat  in  the  corner, 
though  his  money  was  all  spent,  and  he  had  not  eaten 
anything  the  whole  day  except  a  biscuit.  He  surveyed 
his  gathering  companions  with  all  the  equanimity  and 
philosophy  of  a  man  who  has  been  drinking  long  and 
slowly,  and  made  friends  with  several  :  to  wit.  Tinker 
Taylor,  a  decayed  church  iron-monger,  who  appeared  to 
have  been  of  a  religious  turn  in  earlier  years,  but  was 


I40  JUDE  THE  OBSCURE 

somewhat  blasphemous  now ;  also  a  red-nosed  auction- 
eer;  also  two  Gothic  masons  like  himself,  called  Uncle 
Jim  and  Uncle  Joe.  There  were  present,  too,  some  clerks, 
and  a  gown-and-surplice-maker's  assistant;  two  ladies 
who  sported  moral  characters  of  various  depths  of  shade, 
according  to  their  company,  nicknamed  "  Bower  o'  Bliss  " 
and  "  Freckles  "  ;  some  horsey  men  "  in  the  know  "  of  bet- 
ting circles  ;  a  travelling  actor  from  the  theatre,  and  two 
devil-may-care  young  men,  who  proved  to  be  gownless 
undergraduates  ;  they  had  slipped  in  by  stealth  to  meet  a 
man  about  bull-pups,  and  stayed  to  drink  and  smoke 
short  pipes  with  the  racing  gents  aforesaid,  looking  at 
their  watches  every  now  and  then. 

The  conversation  waxed  general.  Christminster  soci- 
ety was  criticised,  the  Dons,  magistrates,  and  other  peo- 
ple in  authority  being  sincerely  pitied  for  their  short- 
comings, while  opinions  on  how  they  ought  to  conduct 
themselves  and  their  affairs  to  be  properly  respected 
were  exchanged  in  a  large-minded  and  disinterested 
manner. 

Jude  Fawley,  with  the  self-conceit,  effrontery,  and 
aplomb  of  a  strong-brained  fellow  in  liquor,  threw  in  his 
remarks  somewhat  peremptorily;  and  his  aims  having 
been  what  they  were  for  so  many  years,  everything  the 
others  said  turned  upon  his  tongue,  by  a  sort  of  mechan- 
ical craze,  to  the  subject  of  scholarship  and  study,  the  ex- 
tent of  his  own  learning  being  dwelt  upon  with  an  insist- 
ence that  would  have  appeared  pitiable  to  himself  in  his 
sane  hours. 

"  I  don't  care  a  damn,"  he  was  saying,  "  for  any  Prov- 
ost, Warden,  Principal,  Fellow,  or  cursed  Master  of  Arts 
in  the  University!  What  I  know  is  that  I'd  lick  'em  on 
their  own  ground  if  they'd  give  me  a  chance,  and  show 
'em  a  few  things  they  are  not  up  to  yet !" 

"  Hear,  hear !"  said  the  undergraduates  from  the  cor- 
ner, where  they  were  talking  privately  about  the  pups. 

"You  always  was  fond  o'  books,  I've  heard,"  said  Tin- 


AT    CHRISTMINSTER  I4I 

ker  Taylor,  "and  I  don't  doubt  what  you  state.  Now 
with  me  'twas  different.  I  always  saw  there  was  more  to 
be  learnt  outside  a  book  than  in ;  and  I  took  my  steps  ac- 
cordingly, or  I  shouldn't  have  been  the  man  I  am." 

"  You  aim  at  the  Church,  I  believe  ?"  said  Uncle  Joe. 
"  If  you  are  such  a  scholar  as  to  pitch  yer  hopes  so  high 
as  that,  why  not  give  us  a  specimen  of  your  scholar- 
ship.' Canst  say  the  Creed  in  Latin,  man.'  That  was 
how  they  once  put  it  to  a  chap  down  in  my  country." 

"  I  should  think  so  !"  said  Jude,  haughtily. 

"  Not  he  !  Like  his  conceit !"  screamed  one  of  the  la- 
dies. 

"Just  you  shut  up.  Bower  o'  Bliss  !"  said  one  of  the  un- 
dergraduates. "Silence!"  He  drank  ofif  the  spirits  in 
his  tumbler,  rapped  with  it  on  the  counter,  and  announced, 
"  The  gentleman  in  the  corner  is  going  to  rehearse  the 
Articles  of  the  Creed,  in  the  Latin  tongue,  for  the  edifica- 
tion of  the  company." 

"  I  won't !"  said  Jude. 

"Yes — have  a  try  !"  said  the  surplice-maker. 

"  You  can't !"  said  Uncle  Joe. 

"  Yes,  he  can  !"  said  Tinker  Taylor. 

"  I'll  swear  I  can  !"  said  Jude.  "  Well,  come  now,  stand 
me  a  small  Scotch  cold,  and  I'll  do  it  straight  off." 

"  That's  a  fair  offer,"  said  the  undergraduate,  throwing 
down  the  money  for  the  whiskey. 

The  barmaid  concoctf;d  the  mixture  with  the  bearing 
of  a  person  compelled  to  live  amongst  animals  of  an  inferi- 
or species,  and  the  glass  was  handed  across  to  Jude,  who, 
having  drunk  the  co.itents,  stood  up  and  began  rhetori- 
cally, without  hesitation  : 

"Credo  in  unum  Deum,  Patrem  omnipotentem,  Fac- 
torem  coeli  et  terrae  visibilium  omnium  et  invisibilium." 

"Good!  Excellent  Latin!"  cried  one  of  the  under- 
graduates, who,  however,  had  not  the  slightest  concep- 
tion of  a  single  word. 

A  silence  reigned  among  the  rest  in  the  bar,  and  the 


> 


142  JUDE  THE  OBSCURE 

maid  stood  still,  Jude's  voice  echoing  sonorously  into  the 
inner  parlor,  where  the  landlord  was  dozing,  and  bring- 
ing him  out  to  see  what  was  going  on.  Jude  had  de- 
claimed steadily  ahead,  and  was  continuing  : 

"  Crucifixus  etiam  pro  nobis  :  sub  Pontio  Pilato  passus, 
et  sepultus  est.  Et  resurrexit  tertia  die,  secundum  scrip- 
turas." 

"That's  the  Nicene,"  sneered  the  second  undergrad- 
uate.    "  And  we  wanted  the  Apostles' !" 

"  You  didn't  say  so  !  And  every  fool  knows,  except  you, 
that  the  Nicene  is  the  only  historic  creed  !" 

"  Let  un  go  on,  let  un  go  on  !"  said  the  auctioneer. 

But  Jude's  mind  seemed  to  grow  confused  soon,  and  he 
could  not  get  on.  He  put  his  hand  to  his  forehead,  and 
his  face  assumed  an  expression  of  pain. 

"  Give  him  another  glass — then  he'll  fetch  up  and  get 
through  it,"  said  Tinker  Taylor. 

Somebody  threw  down  threepence,  the  glass  was  hand- 
ed, Jude  stretched  out  his  arm  for  it  without  looking,  and, 
having  swallowed  the  liquor,  went  on  in  a  moment  in  a 
revived  voice,  continuing  to  the  end  with  the  manner  of 
a  priest  leading  a  congregation  : 

"  Et  unam  Catholicam  et  Apostolicam  Ecclesiam.  Con- 
fiteor  unum  Baptisma  in  remissionem  peccatorum.  Et 
expecto  Resurrectionem  mortuorum.  Et  vitam  venturi 
saeculi.     Amen." 

"  Well  done  !"  said  several,  en  'oying  the  last  word,  as 
bemg  the  first  and  only  one  they  had  recognized. 

Then  Jude  seemed  to  shake  the  fumes  from  his  brain, 
as  he  stared  round  upon  them. 

"You  pack  of  fools!"  he  cried.  "Which  one  of  you 
knows  whether  I  have  said  it  or  no  }  It  might  have  been 
the  Ratcatcher's  Daughter  in  double  Dutch  for  all  that 
your  besotted  heads  can  tell !  See  what  I  have  brought 
myself  to — the  crew  I  have  come  among!" 

The  landlord,  who  had  already  had  his  license  endorsed 
for  harboring  queer  characters,  feared  a  riot,  and  came 


c 

o 
p) 


-1 

o 
o 

D 
c 

T 
> 
D 

O 
> 

z 


ft 

d 

2 
n 

> 
r 

r 


a 


AT   CHRISTMINSTER  I43 

outside  the  counter;  but  Jude,  in  his  sudden  flash  of  rea- 
son, had  turned  in  disgust  and  left  the  scene,  the  door 
slamming  with  a  dull  thud  behind  him. 

He  hastened  down  the  lane  and  round  into  the  straight 
broad  street,  which  he  followed  till  it  merged  in  the  high- 
way, and  all  sound  of  his  late  companions  had  been  left 
behind.  Onward  he  still  went,  under  the  influence  of  a 
childlike  yearning  for  the  one  being  in  the  world  to  whom 
it  seemed  possible  to  fly — an  unreasoning  desire,  whose 
ill  judgment  was  not  apparent  to  him  now.  In  the  course 
of  an  hour,  when  it  was  between  ten  and  eleven  o'clock, 
he  entered  the  village  of  Lumsdon,  and  reaching  the  cot- 
tage, saw  that  a  light  was  burning  in  a  down-stairs  room, 
which  he  assumed,  rightly  as  it  happened,  to  be  hers. 

Jude  stepped  close  to  the  wall,  and  tapped  with  his  fin- 
ger on  the  pane,  saying,  impatiently,  "  Sue,  Sue  !" 

She  must  have  recognized  his  voice,  for  the  light  dis- 
appeared from  the  apartment,  and  in  a  second  or  two  the 
door  was  unlocked  and  opened,  and  Sue  appeared  with  a 
candle  in  her  hand. 

"  Is  it  Jude.''  Yes,  it  is!  My  dear,  dear  cousin,  what's 
the  matter?" 

"Oh,  I  am  —  I  couldn't  help  coming,  Sue!"  said  he, 
sinking  down  upon  the  door-step.  "  I  am  so  wicked.  Sue 
— my  heart  is  nearly  broken,  and  I  could  not  bear  my  life 
as  it  was  !  So  I  have  been  drinking,  and  blaspheming,  or 
next  door  to  it,  and  saying  holy  things  in  disreputable 
quarters — repeating  in  idle  bravado  words  which  ought 
never  to  be  uttered  but  reverently!  Oh,  do  anything 
with  me,  Sue — kill  me — I  don't  care  !  Only  don't  hate 
me  and  despise  me  like  all  the  rest  of  the  world  !" 

"  You  are  ill,  poor  dear !  No,  I  won't  despise  you  ;  of 
course  I  won't.  Come  in  and  rest,  and  let  me  see  what  I 
can  do  for  you.  Now  lean  on  me,  and  don't  mind." 
With  one  hand  holding  the  candle  and  the  other  support- 
ing him,  she  led  him  in-doors,  and  placed  him  in  the  only 
easy-chair  the  meagrely  furnished  house  afforded,  stretch- 


144  JUDE   THE   OBSCURE 

ing  his  feet  upon  another,  and  pulHng  off  his  boots.  Jude, 
now  getting  towards  his  sober  senses,  could  only  say, 
"  Dear,  dear  Sue  !"  in  a  voice  broken  by  grief  and  contri- 
tion. 

She  asked  him  if  he  wanted  anything  to  eat,  but  he 
shook  his  head.  Then  telling  him  to  go  to  sleep,  and 
that  she  would  come  down  early  in  the  morning  and  get 
him  some  breakfast,  she  bade  him  good-night,  and  ascend- 
ed the  stairs. 

Almost  immediately  he  fell  into  a  heavy  slumber,  and 
did  not  wake  till  dawn.  At  first  he  did  not  know  where 
he  was,  but  by  degrees  his  situation  cleared  to  him,  and 
he  beheld  it  in  all  the  ghastliness  of  a  right  mind.  She 
knew  the  worst  of  him — the  very  worst.  How  could  he 
face  her  now?  She  would  soon  be  coming  down  to  see 
about  breakfast,  as  she  had  said,  and  there  would  he  be 
in  all  his  shame  confronting  her.  He  could  not  bear  the 
thought,  and  softly  drawing  on  his  boots,  and  taking  his 
hat  from  the  nail  on  which  she  had  hung  it,  he  slipped 
noiselessly  out  of  the  house. 

His  fixed  idea  was  to  get  away  to  somQ_  obscure  spot 
and  hide,  and  perhaps  pray;  and  the  only  spot  which  oc- 
curred to  him  was  Marygreen.  He  called  at  his  lodging 
in  Christminster,  where  he  found  awaiting  him  a  note  of 
dismissal  from  his  employer;  and  having  packed  up,  he 
turned  his  back  upon  the  city  that  had  been  such  a  thorn 
in  his  side  and  struck  southward  into  Wessex.  He  had 
no  money  left  in  his  pocket,  his  small  savings,  deposited 
at  one  of  the  banks  in  Christminster,  having  fortunately 
been  left  untouched.  To  get  to  Marygreen,  therefore,  his 
only  course  was  walking;  and  the  distance  being  nearly 
twenty  miles,  he  had  ample  time  to  complete  on  the  way 
the  sobering  process  begun  in  him. 

At  some  hour  of  the  evening  he  reached  Alfredston. 
Here  he  pawned  his  waistcoat,  and  having  gone  out  of 
the  town  a  mile  or  two,  slept  under  a  rick  that  night.  At 
dawn  he  rose,  shook  off  the  hayseeds  and  stems  from  his 


AT   CHRISTMINSTER 


fC^ 


clothes,  and  started  again,  breasting  the  long  white  road 
up  the  hill  to  the  downs,  which  had  been  visible  to  him 
a  long  way  off,  and  passing  the  milestone  at  the  top, 
whereon  he  had  carved  his  hopes  years  ago. 

He  reached  the  ancient  hamlet  while  the  people  were 
at  breakfast.  Weary  and  mud-bespattered,  but  quite  pos- 
sessed of  his  ordinary  clearness  of  brain,  he  sat  down  by 
the  well,  thinking  as  he  did  so  what  a  poor  Christ  he 
made.  Seeing  a  trough  of  water  near,  he  bathed  his  face, 
and  went  on  to  the  cottage  of  his  great-aunt,  whom  he 
found  breakfasting  in  bed,  attended  by  the  woman  who 
lived  with  her. 

"  What — out  o'  work  ?"  asked  his  relative,  regarding 
him  through  eyes  sunken  deep,  under  lids  heavy  as  pot- 
covers,  no  other  cause  for  his  tumbled  appearance  sug- 
gesting itself  to  one  whose  whole  life  had  been  a  struggle 
with  material  things. 

"Yes,"  said  Jude,  heavily.  "  I  think  I  must  have  a  lit- 
tle rest." 

Refreshed  by  some  breakfast,  he  went  up  to  his  old 
room  and  lay  down  in  his  shirt-sleeves,  after  the  manner 
of  the  artisan.  He  fell  asleep  for  a  short  while,  and  when 
he  awoke  it  was  as  if  he  had  awakened  in  hell.  It  7uas 
hell — "  the  hell  of  conscious  failure,"  both  in  ambition 
and  in  love-  ■  He  thought  of  that  previous  abyss  into 
which  he  had  fallen  before  leaving  this  part  of  the  coun- 
try; the  deepest  deep  he  had  supposed  it  then;  but  it 
was  not  so  deep  as  this.  That  had  been  the  breaking  in 
of  the  outer  bulwarks  of  his  hope  :  this  was  of  his  second 
line. 

If  he  had  been  a  woman  he  must  have  screamed  un- 
der the  nervous  tension  which  he  was  now  undergoing. 
But  that  relief  being  denied  to  his  virility,  he  clinched 
his  teeth  in  misery,  bringing  lines  about  his  mouth  like 
those  in  the  Laocoon,  and  corrugations  between  his 
brows. 

A  mournful  wind  blew  through  the  trees,  and  sounded 


146       \  JUDE  THE  OBSCURE 


m  ther  chimney  like  the  pedal  notes  of  an  organ.  Each 
ivy  leaf  ov^ergrowing  the  wall  of  the  churchless  church- 
yard hard  by,  now  abandoned,  pecked  its  neighbor  smart- 
ly, and  the  vane  on  the  new  German -Gothic  church  in 
the  new  spot  had  already  begun  to  creak.  Yet  apparent- 
ly it  was  not  always  the  out-door  wind  that  made  the  deep 
murmurs  ;  it  was  a  voice.  He  guessed  its  origin  in  a  mo- 
ment or  two ;  the  curate  was  praying  with  his  aunt  in  the 
adjoining  room.  He  remembered  her  speaking  of  him. 
Presently  the  sounds  ceased,  and  a  step  seemed  to  cross 
the  landing.     Jude  sat  up,  and  shouted  "  Hoi !" 

The  step  made  for  his  door,  which  was  open,  and  a 
man  looked  in.     It  was  a  young  clergyman. 

"I  think  you  are  Mr.  Highridge,"  said  Jude.  "My 
aunt  has  mentioned  you  more  than  once.  Well,  here  I 
am,  just  come  home  ;  a  fellow  gone  to  the  bad  ;  though  I 
had  the  best  intentions  in  the  world  at  one  time.  Now  I 
am  melancholy  mad,  what  with  drinking  and  one  thing 
and  another." 

Slowly  Jude  unfolded  to  the  curate  his  late  plans  and 
movements,  by  an  unconscious  bias  dwelling  less  upon 
the  intellectual  and  ambitious  side  of  his  dream,  and  more 
upon  the  theological,  though  this  had,  up  till  now,  been 
merely  a  portion  of  the  general  plan  of  advancement. 

"  Now  I  know  I  have  been  a  fool,  and  that  folly  is  with 
me,"  added  Jude  in  conclusion.  "  And  I  don't  regret  the 
collapse  of  my  University  hopes  one  jot.  I  wouldn't 
begin  again  if  I  were  sure  to  succeed.  I  don't  care  for 
social  success  any  more  at  all.  But  I  do  feel  I  should 
like  to  do  some  good  thing;  and  I  bitterly  regret  the 
\  Church,  and  the  loss  of  my  chance  of  being  her  ordained 
l—   minister." 

The  curate,  who  was  a  new  man  to  this  neighborhood, 
had  grown  deeply  interested,  and  at  last  he  said  :  "  If 
you  feel  a  real  call  to  the  ministry,  and  I  won't  say  from 
your  conversation  that  you  do  not,  for  it  is  that  of  a 
thoughtful    and   educated    man,    you    might    enter    the 


AT   CHRISTMINSTER  147 

Church  as  a  licentiate.     Only  you  must  make  up  your 
mind  to  avoid  strong  drink." 

"  I  could  avoid  that  easily  enough,  if  I  had  any  kind  of 
hope  to  support  me  !" 


IM- 


PART  III 

AT  MELCHESTER 


''For  there  'was  no  other  girl,  0  bridegroom,  like  her!" 

—Sappho  (H.  T.  Wharton). 


I 


i 


I 

It  was  a  new  idea  —  the  ecclesiastical  and  altruistic  life 
as  distinct  from  the  intellectual  and  emulative  life.  A 
man  could  preach  and  do  good  to  his  fellow-creatures 
without  taking  double-firsts  in  the  schools  of  Christmin- 
ster,  or  having  anything  but  ordinary  knowledge.  The 
old  fancy  which  had  led  on  to  the  culminating  vision  of 
the  bishopric  had  not  been  an  ethical  or  theological  en- 
thusiasm at  all,  but  a  mundane  ambition  masquerading  in 
a  surplice.  He  feared  that  his  whole  scheme  had  degen- 
erated to,  even  though  it  might  not  have  originated  in, 
a  social  unrest  which  had  no  foundation  in  the  nobler  in- 
stincts ;  which  was  purely  an  artificial  product  of  civiliza- 
tion. There  were  thousands  of  young  men  on  the  same 
self-seeking  track  at  the  present  moment.  The  sensual 
hind  who  ate,  drank,  and  lived  carelessly  with  his  wife 
through  the  days  of  his  vanity  was  a  more  likable  being 
than  he. 

But  to  enter  the  Church  in  such  an  unscholarly  way 
that  he  could  not  in  any  probability  rise  to  a  higher  grade 
through  all  his  career  than  that  of  the  humble  curate 
wearing  his  life  out  in  an_obscure  village  or  city  slum — 
that  might  have  a  touch  of  goodness  and  greatness  in  it ; 
that  might  be  true  religion,  and  a  purgatorial  course 
worthy  of  being  followed  by  a  remorseful  man. 

The  favorable  light  in  which  this  new  thought  showed 
itself  by  contrast  with  his  foregone  intentions  cheered 
Jude,  as  he  sat  there,  shabby  and  lonely ;  and  it  may  be 
said  to  have  given,  during  the  next  few  days,  the  coup  de 
srrcicc  to  his  intellectual  career— a  career  which  had  ex- 


152  JUDE   THE  OBSCURE 

tended  over  the  greater  part  of  a  dozen  years.  He  did 
nothing,  however,  for  some  long  stagnant  time  to  advance 
his  new  desire,  occupying  himself  with  little  local  jobs  in 
putting  up  and  lettering  headstones  about  the  neighbor- 
ing villages,  and  submitting  to  be  regarded  as  a  social 
failure,  a  returned  purchase,  by  the  half-dozen  or  so  of 
farmers  and  other  country-people  who  condescended  to 
nod  to  him. 

The  human  interest  of  the  new  intention — and  a  human 
interest  is  indispensable  to  the  most  spiritual  and  self- 
sacrificing — was  created  by  a  letter  from  Sue,  bearing  a 
fresh  postmark.  She  evidently  wrote  with  anxiety,  and 
told  very  little  about  her  own  doings,  more  than  that  she 
had  passed  some  sort  of  examination  for  a  Queen's  Schol- 
arship, and  was  going  to  enter  a  Training  College  at  Mel- 
chester  to  complete  herself  for  the  vocation  she  had 
chosen,  partly  by  his  influence.  There  was  a  Theological 
College  at  Melchester;  Melchester  was  a  quiet  and  sooth- 
ing place,  almost  entirely  ecclesiastical  in  its  tone  ;  a  spot 
where  worldly  learning  and  intellectual  smartness  had  no 
establishment;  where  the  altruistic  feeling  that  he  did 
possess  would  perhaps  be  more  highly  estimated  than  a 
brilliancy  which  he  did  not. 

As  it  would  be  necessary  that  he  should  continue  for  a 
time  to  work  at  his  trade  while  reading  up  Divinity,  which 
he  had  neglected  at  Christminster  for  the  ordinary  classi- 
cal grind,  what  better  course  for  him  than  to  get  employ- 
ment at  the  farther  city,  and  pursue  this  plan  of  reading? 
That  his  excessive  human  interest  in  the  new  place  was 
entirely  of  Sue's  making,  while  at  the  same  time  Sue  was 
to  be  regarded  even  less  than  formerly  as  proper  to  cre- 
ate it,  had  an  ethical  contradictoriness  to  which  he  was 
not  blind.  But  that  much  he  conceded  to  human  frailty, 
and  hoped  to  learn  to  love  her  only  as  a  friend  and  kins- 
woman. 

He  considered  that  he  might  so  mark  out  his  coming 
years  as  to  begin  his  ministry  at  the  age  of  thirty — an  age 


SU' 


AT   MELCHESTER  1 53 


which  much  attracted  him  as  being  that  of  his  exemplar 
when  he  first  began  to  teach  in  Galilee.  This  would 
allow  him  plenty  of  time  for  deliberate  study,  and  for 
acquiring  capital  by  his  trade  to  help  his  after-course  of 
keeping  the  necessary  terms  at  a  Theological  College. 

Christmas  had  come  and  passed,  and  Sue  had  gone  to 
the  Melchester  Normal  School.  The  time  was  just  the 
worst  in  the  year  for  Jude  to  get  into  new  employment, 
and  he  had  written  suggesting  to  her  that  he  should 
postpone  his  arrival  for  a  month  or  so,  till  the  days  had 
lengthened.  She  had  acquiesced  so  readily  that  he  wished 
he  had  not  proposed  it — she  evidently  did  not  much  care 
about  him,  though  she  had  never  once  reproached  him 
for  his  strange  conduct  in  coming  to  her  that  night,  and 
his  silent  disappearance.  Neither  had  she  ever  said  a 
word  about  her  relations  with  Mr.  Phillotson. 

Suddenly,  however,  quite  a  passionate  letter  arrived 
from  Sue.  She  was  quite  lonely  and  miserable,  she  told 
him.  She  hated  the  place  she  was  in  ;  it  was  worse  than 
the  ecclesiastical  designer's  ;  worse  than  anywhere.  She 
felt  utterly  friendless;  could  he  come  immediately? — 
though  when  he  did  come  she  would  only  be  able  to  see 
him  at  limited  times,  the  rules  of  the  establishment  she 
found  herself  in  being  strict  to  a  degree.  It  was  Mr. 
Phillotson  who  had  advised  her  to  come  there,  and  she 
wished  she  had  never  listened  to  him. 

Phillotson's  suit  was  not  exactly  prospering,  evidently  ; 
and  Jude  felt  unreasonably  glad.  He  packed  up  his 
things  and  went  to  Melchester  with  a  lighter  heart  than 
lie  had  known  for  months. 

This  being  the  turning  ov^er  a  new  leaf,  he  duly  looked 
about  for  a  temperance  hotel,  and  found  a  little  establish- 
ment of  that  description  in  the  street  leading  from  the 
station.  When  he  had  had  something  to  eat  he  walked 
out  into  the  dull  winter  light  over  the  town  bridge,  and 
turned  the  corner  towards  the  Close.    The  day  was  foggy. 


154  JUDE  THE   OBSCURE 

and  standing  under  the  walls  of  the  most  graceful  archi- 
tectural pile  in  England  he  paused  and  looked  up.  The 
lofty  building  was  visible  as  far  as  the  roof-ridge  ;  above, 
the  dwindling  spire  rose  more  and  more  remotely,  till  its 
apex  was  quite  lost  in  the  mist  drifting  across  it. 

The  lamps  now  began  to  be  lighted,  and,  turning  to  the 
west  front,  he  walked  round.  He  took  it  as  a  good  omen 
that  numerous  blocks  of  stone  were  lying  about,  which 
signified  that  the  cathedral  was  undergoing  restoration  or 
repair  to  a  considerable  extent.  It  seemed  to  him,  full 
of  the  superstitions  of  his  beliefs,  that  this  was  an  exercise 
of  forethought  on  the  part  of  a  ruling  Power,  that  he 
might  find  plenty  to  do  in  the  art  he  practised  while  wait- 
ing for  a  call  to  higher  labors. 

Then  a  wave  of  warmth  came  over  him  as  he  thought 
how  near  he  now  stood  to  the  bright-eyed  vivacious  girl 
with  the  broad  forehead  and  pile  of  dark  hair  above  it ; 
the  girl  with  the  kindling  glance,  daringly  soft  at  times — 
something  like  that  of  the  girls  he  had  seen  in  engravings 
from  paintings  of  the  Spanish  school.  She  was  here — 
actually  in  this  Close — in  one  of  the  houses  confronting 
this  very  west  fagade. 

He  went  down  the  broad  gravel  path  towards  the  build- 
ing. It  was  an  ancient  edifice  of  the  fifteenth  century, 
once  a  palace,  now  a  training-school,  with  mullioned  and 
transomed  windows,  and  a  court-yard  in  front  shut  in  from 
the  road  by  a  wall.  Jude  opened  the  gate  and  went  up 
to  the  door  through  which,  on  inquiring  for  his  cousin,  he 
was  gingerly  admitted  to  a  waiting- room,  and  in  a  few 
minutes  she  came. 

Though  she  had  been  here  such  a  short  while,  she  was 
not  as  he  had  seen  her  last.  All  her  bounding  manner 
was  gone;  her  curves  of  motion  had  become  subdued 
lines.  The  screens  and  subtleties  of  convention  had  like- 
wise disappeared.  Yet  neither  was  she  quite  the  woman 
who  had  written  the  letter  that  summoned  him.  That 
had  plainly  been  dashed  off  in  an  impulse  which  second 


AT   MELCHESTER  I  55 

thoughts  had  somewhat  regretted ;  thoughts  that  were 
possibly  of  his  recent  self-disgrace.  Jude  was  quite  over- 
come with  emotion. 

"You  don't — think  me  a  demoralized  wretch — for  com- 
ing to  you  as  I  was — and  going  so  shamefully,  Sue  ?" 

"Oh,  I  have  tried  not  to!  You  said  enough  to  let  me 
know  what  had  caused  it.  I  hope  I  shall  never  have  any 
doubt  of  your  worthiness,  my  poor  Jude !  And  I  am 
glad  you  have  come  !" 

She  wore  a  murrey-colored  gown  with  a  little  lace  col- 
lar. It  was  made  quite  plain,  and  hung  about  her  slight 
figure  with  clinging  gracefulness.  Her  hair,  which  for- 
merly she  had  worn  according  to  the  custom  of  the  day, 
was  now  twisted  up  tightly,  and  she  had  altogether  the 
air  of  a  woman  clipped  and  pruned  by  severe  discipline, 
an  under- brightness  shining  through  from  the  depths 
which  that  discipline  had  not  yet  been  able  to  reach. 

She  had  come  forward  prettily  ;  but  Jude  felt  that  she 
had  hardly  expected  him  to  kiss  her,  as  he  was  burning 
to  do,  under  other  colors  than  those  of  cousinship.  He 
could  not  perceive  the  least  sign  that  Sue  regarded  him 
as  a  lover,  or  ever  would  do  so,  now  that  she  knew  the 
worst  of  him,  even  if  he  had  the  right  to  behave  as  one ; 
and  this  helped  on  his  growing  resolve  to  tell  her  of  his 
matrimonial  entanglement,  which  he  had  put  of?  doing 
from  time  to  time  in  sheer  dread  of  losing  the  bliss  of  her 
company. 

Sue  came  out  into  the  town  with  him,  and  they  walked 
and  talked  with  tongues  centred  only  on  the  passing  mo- 
ments. Jude  said  he  would  like  to  buy  her  a  little  pres- 
ent of  some  sort,  and  then  she  confessed,  with  something 
of  shame,  that  she  was  dreadfully  hungry.  They  were 
kept  on  very  short  allowances  in  the  College,  and  a  din- 
ner, tea,  and  supper  all  in  one  was  the  present  she  most 
desired  in  the  world.  Jude  thereupon  took  her  to  an  inn 
and  ordered  whatever  the  house  afforded,  which  was  not 
much.     The  place,  however;  gave  them  a  delightful  op- 


156  JUDE  THE   OBSCURE 

portunity  for  a  tetc-a-tete,  nobody  else  being  in  the  room, 
and  they  talked  freely. 

She  told  him  about  the  school  as  it  was  at  that  date, 
and  the  rough  living,  and  the  mixed  character  of  her 
fellow-students,  gathered  together  from  all  parts  of  the 
diocese,  and  how  she  had  to  get  up  and  work  by  gas- 
light in  the  early  morning,  with  all  the  bitterness  of  a 
young  person  to  whom  restraint  was  new.  To  all  this 
he  listened  ;  but  it  was  not  what  he  wanted  especially  to 
know  —  her  relations  with  Phillotson.  That  was  what 
she  did  not  tell.  When  they  had  sat  and  eaten,  Jude 
impulsively  placed  his  hand  upon  hers ;  she  looked  up 
and  smiled,  and  took  his  quite  freely  into  her  own  little 
soft  one,  dividing  his  fingers  and  coolly  examining  them, 
as  if  they  were  the  fingers  of  a  glove  she  was  purchas- 
ing. 

"Your  hands  are  rather  rough,  Jude,  aren't  they?"  she 
said. 

"Yes.  So  would  yours  be  if  they  held  a  mallet  and 
chisel  all  day." 

"  I  don't  dislike  it,  you  know.  I  think  it  is  noble  to 
see  a  man's  hands  subdued  to  what  he  works  in. .  . .  Well, 
I'm  rather  glad  I  came  to  this  Training-School,  after  all. 
See  how  independent  I  shall  be  after  the  two  years'  train- 
ing! I  shall  pass  pretty  high,  I  expect,  and  Mr.  Phillot- 
son will  use  his  influence  to  get  me  a  big  school." 

She  had  touched  the  subject  at  last.  "  I  had  a  sus- 
picion, a  fear,"  said  Jude,  "  that  he  —  cared  about  you 
rather  warmly,  and  perhaps  wanted  to  marry  you." 

"  Now  don't  be  such  a  silly  boy  !" 

"  He  has  said  something  about  it,  I  expect." 

"  If  he  had,  what  would  it  matter  }  An  old  man  like 
him !" 

"  Oh,  come,  Sue;  he's  not  so  very  old.  And  I  know 
what  I  saw  him  doing — " 

"  Not  kissing  me — that  I'm  certain  !" 

"  No.     But  putting  his  arm  round  your  waist." 


AT   MELCHESTER  1 57 

"Ah — I  remember.    But  I  didn't  know  he  was  going  to." 

"  You  are  wriggling  out  of  it,  Sue,  and  it  isn't  quite 
kind  !" 

Her  ever-sensitive  lip  began  to  quiver,  and  her  eye  to 
blink,  at  something  this  reproof  was  deciding  her  to  say. 

"  I  know  you'll  be  angry  if  I  tell  you  everything,  and 
that's  why  I  don't  want  to!" 

"Very  well,  then,  dear,"  he  said,  soothingly.  "I  have 
no  real  right  to  ask  you,  and  I  don't  wish  to  know." 

"  I  shall  tell  you  !"  said  she,  with  the  perverseness  that 
was  part  of  her.  "  This  is  what  I  have  done  :  I  have 
promised — I  have  promised — that  I  will  marry  him  when 
I  come  out  of  the  Training-School  two  years  hence,  and 
have  got  my  Certificate ;  his  plan  being  that  we  shall 
then  take  a  large  double  school  in  a  great  town — he  the 
boys  and  I  the  girls — as  married  school-teachers  often  do, 
and  make  a  good  income  between  us." 

"  Oh,  Sue  !  .  .  .  But  of  course  it  is  right — you  couldn't 
have  done  better !" 

He  glanced  at  her  and  their  eyes  met,  the  reproach  in 
his  own  belying  his  words.  Then  he  drew  his  hand  quite 
away  from  hers,  and  turned  his  face  in  estrangement 
from  her  to  the  window.  Sue  regarded  him  passively 
without  moving. 

"  I  knew  you  would  be  angry  !"  she  said,  with  an  air  of 
no  emotion  whatever.  "  Very  well — I  am  wrong,  I  sup- 
pose !  I  ought  not  to  have  let  you  come  to  see  me !  We 
had  better  not  meet  again ;  and  we'll  only  correspond  at 
long  intervals,  on  purely  business  matters  !" 

This  was  just  the  one  thing  he  would  not  be  able  to 
bear,  as  she  probably  knew,  and  it  brought  him  round  at 
once.  "  Oh  yes,  we  will,"  he  said,  quickly.  "  Your  being 
engaged  can  make  no  difference  to  me  whatever.  I  have 
a  perfect  right  to  sec  you  when  I  want  to  ;  and  I  shall !" 

"Then  don't  let  us  talk  of  it  any  more.  It  is  quite 
spoiling  our  evening  together.  What  docs  it  matter 
about  what  one  is  going  to  do  two  years  hence  !" 


158  JUDE  THE  OBSCURE 

She  was  something  of  a  riddle  to  him,  and  he  let  the 
subject  drift  away.  "Shall  we  go  and  sit  in  the  Cathe- 
dral ?"  he  asked,  when  their  meal  was  finished. 

"Cathedral?  Yes.  Though  I  think  I'd  rather  sit  in 
the  railway  station,"  she  answered,  a  remnant  of  vexation 
still  in  her  voice.  "  That's  the  centre  of  the  town  life 
now.     The  Cathedral  has  had  its  day!" 

"  How  modern  you  are  !" 

"  So  would  you  be  if  you  bad  lived  so  much  in  the 
Middle  Ages  as  I  have  done  these  last  few  years.  The 
Cathedral  was  a  very  good  place  four  or  live  centuries 
ago;  but  it  is  played  out  now.  ...  I  am  not  modern, 
either.  I  am  more  ancient  than  mediaevalism,  if  you 
only  knew." 

Jude  looked  distressed. 

"  There  —  I  won't  say  any  more  of  that !"  she  cried, 
"Only  you  don't  know  how  bad  I  am,  from  your  point 
of  view,  or  you  wouldn't  think  so  much  of  me,  or  care 
whether  I  was  engaged  or  not.  Now,  there's  just  time 
for  us  to  walk  round  the  Close,  and  then  I  must  go  in,  or 
I  shall  be  locked  out  for  the  night." 

He  took  her  to  the  gate  and  they  parted.  Jude  had  a 
conviction  that  his  unhappy  visit  to  her  on  that  sad  night 
had  precipitated  this  marriage  engagement,  and  it  did 
anything  but  add  to  his  happiness.  Her  reproach  had 
taken  that  shape,  then,  and  not  the  shape  of  words. 
However,  next  day  he  set  about  seeking  employment, 
which  it  was  not  so  easy  to  get  as  at  Christminster,  there 
being,  as  a  rule,  less  stone -cutting  in  progress  in  this 
quiet  city,  and  hands  being  mostly  permanent.  But  he 
edged  himself  in  by  degrees.  His  first  work  was  some 
carving  at  the  cemetery  on  the  hill  ;  and  ultimately  he 
became  engaged  on  the  labor  he  most  desired  —  the 
Cathedral  repairs,  which  were  very  extensive,  the  whole 
interior  fittings  having  been  swept  away,  to  be  replaced 
by  new. 

It  might  be  a  labor  of  years  to  get  it  all  done,  and  he 


AT    MELCHESTER  159 

had  confidence  enough  in  his  own  skill  with  the  mallet 
and  chisel  to  feel  that  it  would  be  a  matter  of  choice  with 
himself  how  long  he  would  stay. 

The  lodgings  he  took  near  the  Close  Gate  would  not 
have  disgraced  a  curate,  the  rent  representing  a  higher 
percentage  on  his  wages  than  mechanics  of  any  sort 
usually  care  to  pay.  His  combined  bed  and  sitting-room 
was  furnished  with  framed  photographs  of  the  rectories 
and  deaneries  at  which  his  landlady  had  lived  as  trusted 
servant  in  her  time,  and  the  parlor  down -stairs  bore  a 
clock  on  the  mantel-piece  inscribed  to  the  effect  that  it 
was  presented  to  the  same  serious-minded  woman  by  her 
fellow -servants  on  the  occasion  of  her  marriage.  Jude 
added  to  the  furniture  of  his  room  by  unpacking  photo- 
graphs of  the  ecclesiastical  carvings  and  monuments  that 
he  had  executed  with  his  own  hands  ;  and  he  was  deemed 
a  satisfactory  acquisition  as  tenant  of  the  vacant  apart- 
ment. 

He  found  an  ample  supply  of  theological  books  in  the 
city  book-shops,  and  with  these  his  studies  were  recom- 
menced in  a  different  spirit  and  direction  from  his  former 
course.  As  a  relaxation  from  the  Fathers,  and  such  stock 
works  as  Paley  and  Butler,  he  read  Newman,  Pusey,  and 
many  other  modern  lights.  He  hired  a  harmonium,  set 
it  up  in  his  lodging,  and  practised  chants  thereon,  single 
and  double. 


II 

"  To  -  MORROW  is  our  grand  day,  you  know.  Where 
shall  we  go  ?" 

"  I  have  leave  from  three  till  nine.  Wherever  we  can 
get  to  and  come  back  from  in  that  time.  Not  ruins,  Jude 
— I  don't  care  for  them." 

"  Well — Wardour  Castle.  And  then  we  can  do  Font- 
hill  if  we  like — all  in  the  same  afternoon." 

"  Wardour  is  Gothic  ruins — and  I  hate  Gothic!" 

"  No.  Quite  otherwise.  It  is  a  classic  building — Co- 
rinthian, I  think  ;  with  a  lot  of  pictures." 

"Ah  —  that  will  do.  I  like  the  sound  of  Corinthian. 
We'll  go." 

Their  conversation  had  run  thus  some  few  weeks  later, 
and  next  morning  they  prepared  to  start.  Every  detail 
of  the  outing  was  a  facet  reflecting  a  sparkle  to  Jude, 
and  he  did  not  venture  to  meditate  on  the  life  of  incon- 
sistency he  was  leading.  His  Sue's  conduct  was  one  lovely 
conundrum  to  him  ;  he  could  say  no  more. 

There  duly  came  the  charm  of  calling  at  the  College 
door  for  her;  her  emergence  in  a  nunlike  simplicity  of 
costume  that  was  rather  enforced  than  desired ;  the 
traipsing  along  to  the  station,  the  porter's  "  B'your  leave  !" 
the  screaming  of  the  trains — everything  formed  the  basis 
of  a  beautiful  crystallization.  Nobody  stared  at  Sue,  be- 
cause she  was  so  plainly  dressed,  which  comforted  Jude 
in  the  thought  that  only  himself  knew  the  charms  those 
habiliments  subdued.  A  matter  of  ten  pounds  spent  in  a 
drapery-shop,  which  had  no  connection  with  her  real  life 
or  her  real  self,  would  have  set  all  Melchester  staring. 


AT   MELCHESTER  l6l 

The  guard  of  the  train  thought  they  were  lovers,  and  put 
them  into  a  compartment  all  by  themselves. 

"  That's  a  good  intention  wasted  !"  said  she. 

Jude  did  not  respond.  He  thought  the  remark  un- 
necessarily cruel,  and  partly  untrue. 

They  reached  the  Park  and  Castle  and  wandered 
through  the  picture-galleries,  Jude  stopping  by  preference 
in  front  of  the  devotional  pictures  by  Del  Sarto,  Guido 
Reni,  Spagnoletto,  Sassoferrato,  Carlo  Dolci,  and  others. 
Sue  paused  patiently  beside  him,  and  stole  critical  looks 
into  his  face  as,  regarding  the  Virgins,  Holy  Families,  and 
Saints,  it  grew  reverent  and  abstracted.  When  she  had 
thoroughly  estimated  him  at  this,  she  would  move  on  and 
wait  for  him  before  a  Lely  or  Reynolds.  It  was  evident 
that  her  cousin  deeply  interested  her,  as  one  might  be  in- 
terested in  a  man  puzzling  out  his  way  along  a  labyrinth 
from  which  one  had  one's  self  escaped. 

When  they  came  out  a  long  time  still  remained  to 
them,  and  Jude  proposed  that  as  soon  as  they  had  had 
something  to  eat  they  should  walk  across  the  high  coun- 
try to  the  north  of  their  present  position,  and  intercept 
the  train  of  another  railway  leading  back  to  Melchester, 
at  a  station  about  seven  miles  off.  Sue,  who  was  inclined 
for  any  adventure  that  would  intensify  the  sense  of  her 
day's  freedom,  readily  agreed  ;  and  away  they  went,  leav- 
ing the  adjoining  station  behind  them. 

It  was  indeed  open  country,  wide  and  high.  They 
talked  and  bounded  on,  Jude  cutting  from  a  little  covert 
a  long  walking-stick  for  Sue  as  tall  as  herself,  with  a  great 
crook  which  made  her  look  like  a  shepherdess.  About 
half-way  on  their  journey  they  crossed  a  main  road  run- 
ning due  cast  and  west — the  old  road  from  London  to 
Land's  End.  They  paused,  and  looked  up  and  down  it 
for  a  moment,  and  remarked  upon  the  desolation  which 
had  come  over  this  once  lively  thoroughfare,  while  the 
wind  dipped  to  earth  and  scooped  straws  and  hay-stems 
from  the  ground. 


l62  JUDE  THE   OBSCURE 

They  crossed  the  road  and  passed  on,  but  during  the 
next  half  mile  Sue  seemed  to  grow  tired,  and  Jude  began 
to  be  distressed  for  her.  They  had  walked  a  good  dis- 
tance altogether,  and  if  they  could  not  reach  the  other 
station  it  would  be  rather  awkward.  For  a  long  time 
there  was  no  cottage  visible  on  the  wide  expanse  of  down 
and  turnip-land  ;  but  presently  they  came  to  a  sheepfold, 
and  next  to  the  shepherd,  pitching  hurdles.  He  told 
them  that  the  only  house  near  was  his  mother's  and  his, 
pointing  to  a  little  dip  ahead,  from  which  a  faint  blue 
smoke  arose,  and  recommended  them  to  go  on  and  rest 
there. 

This  they  did,  and  entered  the  house,  admitted  by  an 
old  woman  without  a  single  tooth,  to  whom  they  were  as 
civil  as  strangers  can  be  when  their  only  chance  of  rest 
and  shelter  lies  in  the  favor  of  the  householder. 

"  A  nice  little  cottage,"  said  Jude. 

"  Oh,  I  don't  know  about  the  niceness.  I  shall  have  to 
thatch  it  soon,  and  where  the  thatch  is  to  come  from  I 
can't  tell,  for  straw  do  get  that  dear,  that  'twill  soon  be 
cheaper  to  cover  your  house  wi'  chainey  plates  than 
thatch." 

They  sat  resting,  and  the  shepherd  came  in.  "  Don't 
'ee  mind  I,"  he  said,  with  a  deprecating  wave  of  the  hand. 
"  Bide  here  as  long  as  ye  will.  But  mid  you  be  thinking 
©'getting  back  to  Melchester  to-night  by  train  .^  Be- 
cause you'll  never  do  it  in  this  world,  since  you  don't 
know  the  lie  of  the  country.  I  don't  mind  going  with  ye 
some  o'  the  ways,  but  even  then  the  train  mid  be  gone." 

They  started  up. 

"You  can  bide  here,  you  know,  over  the  night — can't 
'em,  mother  ?  The  place  is  welcome  to  yc.  'Tis  hard 
lying,  rather,  but  volk  may  do  worse."  He  turned  to  Jude 
and  asked,  privately,  "  Be  you  a  married  couple.^" 

"  Hsh— no  !"  said  Jude. 

"Oh — I  meant  nothing  ba'dy — not  I!  Well,  then,  she 
can  go  into  mother's  room,  and  you  and  I  can  lie  in  the 


i^ 


AT   MELCHESTER  163 

outer  chinimer  after  they've  gone  through.  I  can  call  ye 
soon  enough  to  catch  the  first  train  back.  You've  lost 
this  one  now." 

On  consideration  they  decided  to  close  with  this  offer, 
and  drew  up  and  shared  with  the  shepherd  and  his  moth- 
er the  boiled  bacon  and  greens  for  supper. 

"  I  rather  like  this,"  said  Sue,  while  their  entertainers 
were  clearing  away  the  dishes.  "  Outside  all  laws  except 
gravitation  and  germination." 

"  You  only  think  you  like  it ;  you  don't.  You  are  quite 
a  product  of  civilization,"  said  Jude,  a  recollection  of  her 
engagement  reviving  his  soreness  a  little. 

"  Indeed,  I  am  not,  Jude.  I  like  reading  and  all  that, 
but  I  crave  to  get  back  to  the  life  of  my  infancy  and  its 
freedom." 

"  Do  you  remember  it  so  well  .■*  You  seem  to  me  to 
have  nothing  unconventional  at  all  about  you." 

"  Oh,  haven't  I.^     You  don't  know  what's  inside  me." 

"  What  ?" 

"  The  Ishmaeljte." 

"  An  urban  miss  is  what  you  are." 

She  looked  severe  disagreement,  and  turned  away. 

The  shepherd  aroused  them  the  next  morning,  as  he 
had  said.  It  was  bright  and  clear,  and  the  four  miles  to 
the  train  were  accomplished  pleasantly.  When  they  had 
reached  Melchcstcr,  and  walked  to  the  Close,  and  the 
gables  of  the  old  building  in  which  she  was  again  to  be 
immured  rose  before  Sue's  eyes,  she  looked  a  little  scared. 

"  I  expect  I  shall  catch  it!" she  murmured. 

They  rang  the  great  bell  and  waited. 

"Oh,  I  brought  something  for  you, which  I  had  nearly 
forgotten,"  she  said,  quickly,  searching  her  pocket.  "It 
is  a  new  little  photograph  of  me.     Would  you  like  it.^" 

"  IVouid  I  !"  He  took  it  gladly,  and  the  porter  came. 
There  seemed  to  be  an  ominous  glance  on  his  face  when 
he  opened  the  gate.  She  passed  in,  looking  back  at  Jude, 
and  waving  her  hand. 


in 

The  seventy  young  women,  of  ages  varying  in  the  main 
from  nineteen  to  one-and-twenty,  though  several  were 
older,  who  at  this  date  filled  the  species  of  nunnery  known 
as  the  Training-School  at  Melchester,  formed  a  very  mixed 
community,  which  included  the  daughters  of  mechanics, 
curates,  surgeons,  shopkeepers,  farmers,  dairymen,  soldiers, 
sailors,  and  villagers.  They  sat  in  the  large  school-room 
of  the  establishment  on  the  evening  previously  described, 
and  word  was  passed  round  that  Sue  Bridehead  had  not 
come  in  at  closing-time. 

"  She  went  out  with  her  young  man,"  said  a  second- 
year's  student,  who  knew  about  young  men.  "And  Miss 
Traceley  saw  her  at  the  station  with  him.  She'll  have  it 
hot  when  she  does  come." 

"She  said  he  was  her  cousin,"  observed  a  yoi^thful  new 
girl. 

"That  excuse  has  been  made  a  little  too  often  in  this 
school  to  be  effectual  in  saving  our  souls,"  said  the  head 
girl  of  the  year,  dryly. 

The  fact  was  that,  only  twelve  months  before,  there  had 
occurred  a  lamentable  seduction  of  one  of  the  pupils,  who 
had  made  the  same  statement  in  order  to  gain  meetings 
with  her  lover.  The  affair  had  created  a  scandal,  and 
the  management  had  consequently  been  rough  on  cousins 
ever  since. 

At  nine  o'clock  the  names  were  called,  Sue's  being  pro- 
nounced three  times  sonorously  by  Miss  Traceley  with- 
out eliciting  an  answer. 

At  a  quarter  past  nine  the  seventy  stood  up  to  sing 


xJ^ 


AT   MELCHESTER  165 

the  "Evening  Hymn,"  and  then  knelt  down  to  prayers. 
After  prayers  they  went  in  to  supper,  and  every  girl's 
thought  was,  Where  is  Sue  Bridehead?  Some  of  the 
students,  who  had  seen  Jude  from  the  window,  felt  that 
they  would  not  mind  risking  her  punishment  for  the 
pleasure  of  being  kissed  by  such  a  kindly -faced  young 
man.    Hardly  one  among  them  believed  in  the  cousinship. 

Half  an  hour  later  they  all  lay  in  their  cubicles,  their 
tender  feminine  faces  upturned  to  the  flaring  gas-jets 
which  at  intervals  stretched  down  the  long  dormitories, 
every  face  bearing  the  legend  "The  Weaker"  upon  it,  as 
the  penalty  of  the  sex  wherein  they  were  moulded,  which 
by  no  possible  exertion  of  their  willing  hearts  and  abilities 
could  be  made  strong  while  the  inexorable  laws  of  nature 
remain  what  they  are.  They  formed  a  pretty,  suggestive, 
pathetic  sight,  of  whose  pathos  and  beauty  they  were 
themselves  unconscious,  and  would  not  discover  till,  amid 
the  storms  and  strains  of  after-years,  with  their  injustice, 
loneliness,  child-bearing,  and  bereavement,  their  minds 
would  revert  to  this  experience  as  to  something  which 
had  been  allowed  to  slip  past  them  insufficiently  regarded. 

One  of  the  mistresses  came  in  to  turn  out  the  lights, 
and  before  doing  so  gave  a  final  glance  at  Sue's  cot, 
which  remained  empty,  and  at  her  little  dressing-table  at 
the  foot,  which,  like  ail  the  rest,  was  ornamented  with 
various  girlish  trifles,  framed  photographs  being  not  the 
least  conspicuous  among  them.  Sue's  table  had  a  mod- 
erate show,  two  men  in  their  filigree  and  velvet  frames 
standing  together  beside  her  looking-glass. 

"Who  are  these  men — did  she  ever  say?"  asked  the 
mistress.  "  Strictly  speaking,  relations'  portraits  only  arc 
allowed  on  these  tables,  you  know." 

"One— the  middle-aged  man,"  said  a  student  in  the 
next  bed—"  is  the  school-master  she  served  under — Mr. 
Phillotson." 

"  And  the  other— this  undergraduate  in  cap  and  gown 
— who  is  he  ?" 


l66  JUDE  THE  OBSCURE 

"  He  is  a  friend,  or  was.    She  has  never  told  his  name." 
"  Was  it  either  of  these  two  who  came  for  her?" 
"No." 

"  You  are  sure  'twas  not  the  undergraduate  ?" 
"  Quite.  He  was  a  young  man  with  a  black  beard." 
The  lights  were  promptly  extinguished,  and  till  they  fell 
asleep  the  girls  indulged  in  conjectures  about  Sue,  and 
wondered  what  games  she  had  carried  on  in  London  and 
at  Christminster  before  she  came  here,  some  of  the  more 
restless  ones  getting  out  of  bed  and  looking  from  the 
muUioned  windows  at  the  vast  west  front  of  the  Cathe- 
dral opposite  and  the  spire  rising  behind  it. 

When  they  awoke  the  next  morning  they  glanced  into 
Sue's  nook,  to  find  it  still  without  a  tenant.  After  the 
early  lessons  by  gas-light,  in  half-toilet,  and  when  they 
had  come  up  to  dress  for  breakfast,  the  bell  of  the  en- 
trance gate  was  heard  to  ring  loudly.  The  mistress  of  the 
dormitory  went  away,  and  presently  came  back  to  say 
that  the  Principal's  orders  were  that  nobody  was  to  speak 
to  Bridehead  without  permission. 

When,  accordingly.  Sue  came  into  the  dormitory  to 
hastily  tidy  herself,  looking  flushed  and  tired,  she  went  to 
her  cubicle  in  silence,  none  of  them  coming  out  to  greet 
her  or  to  make  inquiry.  When  they  had  gone  down- 
stairs they  found  that  she  did  not  follow  them  into  the 
dining-hall  to  breakfast,  and  they  then  learned  that  she 
had  been  severely  reprimanded,  and  ordered  to  a  solitary 
room  for  a  week,  there  to  be  confined,  and  take  her  meals, 
and  do  all  her  reading. 

At  this  the  seventy  murmured,  the  sentence  being,  they 
thought,  too  severe.  A  round  robin  was  prepared  and 
sent  in  to  the  Principal,  asking  for  a  remission  of  Sue's 
punishment.  No  notice  was  taken.  Towards  evening, 
when  the  geography  mistress  began  dictating  her  subject, 
the  girls  in  the  class  sat  with  folded  arms. 

"You  mean  that  you  are  not  going  to  work?"  said  the 
mistress,  at  last.     "  I  may  as  well  tell  you  that  it  has  been 


AT   MELCHESTER  167 

ascertained  that  the  young  man  Bridehead  stayed  out 
with  was  not  her  cousin,  for  the  very  good  reason  that 
she  has  no  such  relative.  We  have  written  to  Christmin- 
ster  to  ascertain." 

"  We  are  willing  to  take  her  word,"  said  the  head  girl. 

"This  young  man  was  discharged  from  his  work  at 
Christminster  for  drunkenness  and  blasphemy  in  public- 
houses,  and  he  has  come  here  to  live,  entirel)^  to  be  near 
her." 

However,  they  remained  stolid  and  motionless,  and  the 
mistress  left  the  room  to  inquire  from  her  superiors  what 
was  to  be  done. 

Presently,  towards  dusk,  the  pupils,  as  they  sat,  heard 
exclamations  from  the  first -year's  girls  in  an  adjoining 
class-room,  and  one  rushed  in  to  say  that  Sue  Bridehead 
had  got  out  of  the  back  window  of  the  room  in  which 
she  had  been  confined,  escaped  in  the  dark  across  the 
lawn,  and  disappeared.  How  she  had  managed  to  get  out 
of  the  garden  nobody  could  tell,  as  it  was  bounded  by  the 
river  at  the  bottom,  and  the  side  door  was  locked. 

They  went  and  looked  at  the  empty  room,  the  case- 
ment between  the  middle  mullions  of  which  stood  open. 
The  lawn  was  again  searched  with  a  lantern,  every  bush 
and  shrub  being  examined,  but  she  was  nowhere  hidden. 
Then  the  porter  of  the  front  gate  was  interrogated,  and 
on  reflection  he  said  that  he  remembered  hearing  a  sort 
of  splashing  in  the  stream  at  the  back,  but  he  had  taken 
no  notice,  thinking  some  ducks  had  come  down  the  river 
from  above. 

"  She  must  have  walked  through  the  river  !"  said  a  mis- 
tress. 

"Or  drounded  herself,"  said  the  porter. 

The  mind  of  the  matron  was  horrified — not  so  much  at 
the  possible  death  of  Sue  as  at  the  possible  half-column 
detailing  that  event  in  all  the  newspapers,  which,  added 
to  the  scandal  of  the  year  before,  would  give  the  College 
an  unenviable  notoriety  for  many  months  to  come. 


l68  JUDE   THE   OBSCURE 

More  lanterns  were  procured,  and  the  river  examined ; 
and  then,  at  last,  on  the  opposite  shore,  which  was  open 
to  the  fields,  some  little  boot -tracks  were  discerned  in 
the  mud,  which  left  no  doubt  that  the  too  excitable  girl 
had  waded  through  a  depth  of  water  reaching  nearly  to 
her  shoulders — for  this  was  the  chief  river  of  the  county, 
and  was  mentioned  in  all  the  geography  books  with  re- 
spect. As  Sue  had  not  brought  disgrace  upon  the  school 
by  drowning  herself,  the  matron  began  to  speak  supercili- 
ously of  her,  and  to  express  gladness  that  she  was  gone. 

On  the  self-same  evening  Jude  sat  in  his  lodgings  by 
the  Close  Gate.  Often  at  this  hour  after  dusk  he  would 
enter  the  silent  Close,  and  stand  opposite  the  house  that 
contained  Sue,  and  watch  the  shadows  of  the  girls'  heads 
passing  to  and  fro  upon  the  blinds,  and  wish  he  had  noth- 
ing else  to  do  but  to  sit  reading  and  learning  all  day  what 
many  of  the  thoughtless  inmates  despised.  But  to-night, 
having  finished  tea  and  brusbed  himself  up,  he  was  deep 
in  the  perusal  of  the  Twenty- ninth  Volume  of  Pusey's 
Library  of  the  Fathers,  a  set  of  books  which  he  had  pur- 
chased of  a  second-hand  dealer  at  a  price  that  seemed  to 
him  to  be  one  of  miraculous  cheapness  for  that  invalu- 
able work.  He  fancied  he  heard  something  rattle  lightly 
against  his  window ;  then  he  heard  it  again.  Certainly 
somebody  had  thrown  gravel.  He  rose  and  gently  lifted 
the  sash. 

"Jude  !"  (from  below). 

"Sue!" 

"  Yes — it  is  !     Can  I  come  up  without  being  seen  ?" 

"  Oh  yes !" 

"  Then  don't  come  down.     Shut  the  window." 

Jude  waited,  knowing  that  she  could  enter  easily 
enough,  the  front  door  being  opened  merely  by  a  knob 
which  anybody  could  turn,  as  in  most  old  country  towns. 
He  palpitated  at  the  thought  that  she  had  fled  to  him  in 
her  trouble  as  he  had  fled  to  her  in  his.  What  counter- 
parts they  were!     He  unlatched  the  door  of  his  room. 


AT   MELCHESTER  169 

heard  a  stealthy  rustle  on  the  dark  stairs,  and  in  a  mo- 
ment she  appeared  in  the  hght  of  his  lamp.  He  went  up 
to  seize  her  hand,  and  found  she  was  clammy  as  a  marine 
deity,  and  that  her  clothes  clung  to  her  like  the  robes 
upon  the  figures  in  the  Parthenon  frieze. 

"  I'm  so  cold  !"  she  said  through  her  chattering  teeth. 
"  Can  I  come  by  your  fire,  Jude  ?" 

She  crossed  to  his  little  grate  and  very  little  fire,  but  as 
the  water  dripped  from  her  as  she  moved  the  idea  of  dry- 
ing herself  was  absurd.  "Whatever  have  you  done,  dar- 
ling?" he  asked,  with  alarm,  the  tender  epithet  slipping 
out  unawares. 

"  Walked  through  the  largest  river  in  the  county — that's 
what  I've  done  !  They  locked  me  up  for  being  out  with 
you  ;  and  it  seemed  so  unjust  that  I  couldn't  bear  it,  so  I 
got  out  of  the  window  and  escaped  across  the  stream." 
She  had  begun  the  explanation  in  her  usual  slightly  inde- 
pendent tones,  but  before  she  had  finished  the  thin  pink 
lips  trembled,  and  she  could  hardly  refrain  from  crying. 

"Dear  Sue!"  he  said.  "You  must  take  ofl  all  your 
things  !  And,  let  me  see — you  must  borrow  some  from 
the  landlady.     I'll  ask  her." 

"No,  no!  Don't  let  her  know,  for  God's  sake!  We 
are  so  near  the  school  that  they'll  come  after  me  !" 

"Then  you  must  put  on  mine.     You  don't  mind  ?" 

"Oh  no  !  " 

"  My  Sunday  suit,  you  know.  It  is  close  here."  In  fact, 
everything  was  close  and  handy  in  Jude's  single  cham- 
ber, because  there  was  not  room  for  it  to  be  otherwise. 
He  opened  a  drawer,  took  out  his  best  dark  suit,  and  giv- 
ing the  garments  a  shake,  said,  "  Now,  how  long  shall  I 
give  you  }" 

"Ten  minutes." 

Jude  left  the  room  and  went  into  the  street,  where  he 
walked  up  and  down.  A  clock  struck  half-past  seven, 
and  he  returned.  Sitting  in  his  only  arm-chair  he  saw  a 
slim  and  fragile  being  masquerading  as  himself  on  a  Sun- 


I70  JUDE  THE   OBSCURE 

day,  so  pathetic  in  her  defencelessness  that  his  heart  felt 
big  with  the  sense  of  it.  On  two  other  chairs  before  the 
fire  were  her  wet  garments.  She  blushed  as  he  sat  down 
beside  her,  but  only  for  a  moment. 

"  I  suppose,  Jude,  it  is  odd  that  you  should  see  me  like 
this  and  all  my  things  hanging  there.?  Yet  what  non- 
sense !  They  are  only  a  woman's  clothes — sexless  cloth 
and  linen.  ...  I  wish  I  didn't  feel  so  ill  and  sick!  Will 
you  dry  my  clothes  now .'  Please  do,  Jude,, and  I'll  get  a 
lodging  by-and-by.     It  is  not  late  yet." 

"  No,  you  sha'n't,  if  you  are  ill.  You  must  stay  here. 
Dear,  dear  Sue,  what  can  I  get  for  you  ?" 

"  I  don't  know.  I  can't  help  shivering.  I  wish  I  could 
get  warm."  Jude  put  on  her  his  great- coat  in  addition, 
and  then  ran  out  to  the  nearest  public- house,  whence  he 
returned  with  a  little  bottle  in  his  hand.  "  Here's  six  of 
best  brandy,"  he  said.  "Now  you  drink  it,  dear;  all 
of  it." 

"  I  can't  out  of  the  bottle,  can  I  ?"  Jude  fetched  the 
glass  from  the  dressing-table,  and  administered  the  spirit 
in  some  water.  She  gasped  a  little,  but  gulped  it  down, 
and  lay  back  in  the  arm-chair. 

She  then  began  to  relate  circumstantially  her  experiences 
since  they  had  parted  ;  but  in  the  middle  of  her  story  her 
voice  faltered,  her  head  nodded,  and  she  ceased.  She  was 
in  a  sound  sleep.  Jude,  dying  of  anxiety  lest  she  should 
have  caught  a  chill  which  might  permanently  injure  her, 
was  glad  to  hear  the  regular  breathing.  He  softly  went 
nearer  to  her,  and  observed  that  a  warm  flush  now  rosed 
her  hitherto  blue  cheeks,  and  felt  that  her  hanging  hand 
was  no  longer  cold.  Then  he  stood  with  his  back  to  the 
fire  regarding  her,  and  saw  in  her  almost  a  divinity. 


I 


4-,. 


IV 

Jude's  reverie  was  interrupted  by  the  creak  of  footsteps 
ascending  the  stairs. 

He  whisked  Sue's  clothing  from  the  chair  where  it  was 
drying,  thrust  it  under  the  bed,  and  sat  down  to  his  book. 
Somebody  knocked  and  opened  the  door  immediately. 
It  was  the  landlady. 

"  Oh,  I  didn't  know  whether  you  was  in  or  not,  ISIr.  Faw- 
ley.  I  wanted  to  know  if  you  would  require  supper.  I 
see  you've  a  young  gentleman — " 

"Yes,  ma'am.  But  I  think  I  won't  come  down  to- 
night. Will  you  bring  supper  up  on  a  tray,  and  I'll  have 
a  cup  of  tea  as  well." 

It  was  Jude's  custom  to  go  down-stairs  to  the  kitchen 
and  eat  his  meals  with  the  family  to  save  trouDle.  His 
landlady  brought  up  the  supper,  however,  on  this  occa- 
sion, and  he  took  it  from  her  at  the  door. 

When  she  had  descended  he  set  the  teapot  on  the  hob, 
and  drew  out  Sue's  clothes  anew ;  but  they  were  far  from 
dry.  A  thick  woollen  gown,  he  found,  held  a  deal  of 
water.  So  he  hung  them  up  again,  and  kept  up  his  fire, 
and  mused  as  the  steam  from  the  garments  went  up  the 
chimney. 

Suddenly  she  said,  "  Jude  !" 

"  Yes.     All  right.     How  do  you  feel  now  ?" 

"  Better.  Quite  well.  Why,  I  fell  asleep,  didn't  I  ? 
What  time  is  it  ?     Not  late,  surely  ?" 

"  It  is  past  ten." 

"  Is  it  really  ?    What  s/ia/^  I  do!"  she  said,  starting  up. 

"  Stay  where  you  are  ?" 


172  JUDE  THE  OBSCURE 

"  Yes  ;  that's  what  I  want  to  do.  But  I  don't  know 
what  they  would  say  !     And  what  will  you  do?" 

"  I  am  going  to  sit  here  by  the  fire  all  night  and  read. 
To-morrow  is  Sunday,  and  I  haven't  to  go  out  anywhere. 
Perhaps  you  will  be  saved  a  severe  illness  by  resting 
there.  Don't  be  frightened.  I'm  all  right.  Look  here 
what  I  have  got  for  you.     Some  supper." 

When  she  had  sat  upright  she  breathed  plaintively  and 
said,  "  I  do  feel  rather  weak  still.  I  thought  I  was  well ; 
and  I  ought  not  to  be  here,  ought  I  ?"  But  the  supper 
fortified  her  somewhat,  and  when  she  had  had  some  tea, 
and  had  lain  back  again,  she  was  bright  and  cheerful. 

The  tea  must  have  been  green,  or  too  long  drawn,  for 
she  seemed  preternaturally  wakeful  afterwards,  though 
Jude,  who  had  not  taken  any,  began  to  feel  heavy,  till 
her  conversation  fixed  his  attention. 

"  You  called  me  a  creature  of  civilization,  or  something, 
didn't  you  }"  she  said,  breaking  a  silence.  "  It  was  very 
odd  you  should  have  done  that." 

"Why?" 
V         "  Well,  because  it  is  provokingly  wrong.     I  am  a  sort 
■-^'of  negation  of  it." 

"You  are  very  philosophical.  'A  negation'  is  pro- 
found talking." 

"  Is  it  ?  Do  I  strike  you  as  being  learned  ?"  she  asked, 
with  a  touch  of  raillery. 

"  No— not  learned.  Only  you  don't  talk  quite  like  a 
girl — well,  a  girl  who  has  had  no  advantages." 

"  I  have  had  advantages.  I  don't  know  Latin  and 
Greek,  though  I  know  the  grammars  of  those  tongues. 
But  I  know  most  of  the  Greek  and  Latin  classics  through 
translations,  and  other  books  too.  I  read  Lempriere, 
Catullus,  Martial,  Juvenal,  Lucian,  Beaumont  and  Fletch- 
er, Boccaccio,  Scarron,  De  Brantome,  Sterne,  De  Foe, 
Smollett,  Fielding,  Shakespeare,  the  Bible,  and  other  such ; 
and  found  that  all  interest  in  the  unwholesome  part  of 
those  books  ended  with  its  mystery." 


AT   MELCHESTER  173 

"You  have  read  more  than  I,"  he  said,  with  a  sigh. 
"  How  came  you  to  read  some  of  those  queerer  ones  ?" 

"Well,"  she  said,  thoughtfully,  "  it  was  by  accident. 
My  life  has  been  entirely  shaped  by  what  people  call  a 
peculiarity  in  me.  I  have  no  fear  of  men,  as  such,  nor  of 
their  books.  I  have  mixed  with  them  —  one  or  two  of 
them  particularly  —  almost  as  one  of  their  own  sex.  I 
mean  I  have  not  felt  about  them  as  most  women  are 
taught  to  feel — to  be  on  their  guard  against  attacks  on 
their  virtue  ;  for  no  average  man — no  man  short  of  a  sen- 
sual savage  —  will  molest  a  woman  by  day  or  night,  at 
home  or  abroad,  unless  she  invites  him.  Until  she  says 
by  a  look  '  Come  on '  he  is  always  afraid  to ;  and  if  you 
never  say  it,  or  look  it,  he  never  comes.  However,  what 
I  was  going  to  say  is  that  when  I  was  eighteen  I  formed 
a  friendly  intimacy  with  an  undergraduate  at  Christmin- 
ster,  and  he  taught  me  a  great  deal,  and  lent  me  books 
which  I  should  never  have  got  hold  of  otherwise." 

"  Is  your  friendship  broken  oE?" 

"Oh  yes.  He  died,  poor  fellow,  two  or  three  years 
after  he  had  taken  his  degree  and  left  Christminster." 

"  You  saw  a  good  deal  of  him,  I  suppose  ?" 

"  Yes.  We  used  to  go  about  together  —  on  walking 
tours,  reading  tours,  and  things  of  that  sort — like  two 
men  almost.  He  asked  me  to  live  with  him,  and  I  agreed 
to  by  letter.  But  when  I  joined  him  in  London  I  found 
he  meant  a  different  thing  from  what  I  meant.  He. 
wanted  to  be  my  lover,  in  fact,  but  I  wasn't  in  love  with 
him;  and  on  my  saying  I  sh'oulcT'go  liway~~irTTe~dIdn't 
agree  to  my  plan,  he  did  so.  We  shared  a  sitting-room 
for  fifteen  months;  and  he  became  a  leader-writer  for 
one  of  the  great  London  dailies  ;  till  he  was  taken  ill,  and 
had  to  go  abroad.  He  said  I  was  breaking  his  heart  by 
holding  out  against  him  so  long  at  such  close  quarters; 
he  could  never  have  believed  it  of  woman.  I  might  play 
that  game  once  too  often  he  said.  He  came  home  mere- 
ly to  die.     His  death  caused  a  terrible  remorse  in  me  for 


174  JUDE  THE  OBSCURE 

my  cruelty — though  I  hope  he  died  of  consumption,  and 
not  of  me  entirely.  I  went  down  to  Sandbourne  to  his 
funeral,  and  was  his  only  mourner.  He  left  me  a  little 
money  —  because  I  broke  his  heart,  I  suppose.  That's 
how  men  are — so  much  better  than  women  !" 

"  Good  heavens  ! — what  did  you  do  then  ?" 

"Ah — now  you  are  angry  with  me  !"  she  said,  a  con- 
tralto note  of  tragedy  coming  suddenly  into  her  silvery 
voice.     "  I  wouldn't  have  told  you  if  I  had  known  !" 

"  No,  I  am  not.     Tell  me  all." 

"Well,  I  invested  his  money,  poor  fellow,  in  a  bubble 
scheme,  and  lost  it.  I  lived  about  London  by  myself  for 
some  time,  and  then  I  returned  to  Christminster,  as  my 
father — who  was  also  in  London,  and  had  started  as  an 
art  metal-worker  near  Long  Acre  —  wouldn't  have  me 
back;  and  I  got  that  occupation  in  the  artist  shop 
where  you  found  me.  ...  I  said  you  didn't  know  how 
bad  I  was !" 

Jude  looked  round  upon  the  arm-chair  and  its  occu- 
pant, as  if  to  read  more  carefully  the  creature  he  had 
given  shelter  to.  His  voice  trembled  as  he  said  :  "  How- 
ever you  have  lived.  Sue,  I  believe  you  are  as  innocent  as 
you  are  unconventional !" 

"  I  am  not  particularly  innocent,  as  you  see,  now  that  I 
have 

"  '  twitched  the  robe 
From  that  blank  lay-figure  your  fancy  draped,'" 

said  she,  with  an  ostensible  sneer,  though  he  could  hear 
that  she  was  brimming  with  tears.  "  But  I  have  never 
yielded  myself  to  any  lover,  if  that's  what  you  mean !  I 
have  remained  as  I  began." 

"  I  quite  believe  you.  But  some  women  would  not 
have  remained  as  they  began." 

"  Perhaps  not.  Better  women  would  not.  People  say 
I  must  be  cold-natured — sexless — on  account  of  it.  But 
I  won't  have  it !    Some  of  the  most  passionately  erotic 


AT   MELCHESTER  1 75 

poets  have  been  the  most  self-contained    in  their  daily 
lives." 

"Have  you  told  Mr.  Phillotson  about  this  University- 
scholar  friend  ?" 

"  Yes — long  ago.  I  have  never  made  any  secret  of  it  to 
anybody." 

"  What  did  he  say  ?" 

"  He  did  not  pass  any  criticism — only  said  I  was  every- 
thing to  him,  whatever  I  did  ;  and  things  lil-ce  that." 

Jude  felt  much  depressed  ;  she  seemed  to  get  further 
and  further  away  from  him  with  her  strange  ways  and 
curious  unconsciousness  of  gender. 

"Aren't  you  really  vexed  with  me,  dear  Jude?"  she 
suddenly  asked,  in  a  voice  of  such  extraordinary  tender- 
ness that  it  hardly  seemed  to  come  from  the  same  wom- 
an who  had  just  told  her  story  so  lightly.  I  would  rather 
offend  anybody  in  the  world  than  you,  I  think  !" 

"  I  don't  know  whether  I  am  vexed  or  not,  I  know  I 
care  very  much  about  you  !" 

"  I  care  as  much  for  you  as  for  anybody  I  ever  met." 

"You  don't  care  viorc !  There,  I  ought  not.  to  say 
that.     Don't  answer  it !" 

There  was  another  long  silence.  He  felt  that  she  was 
treating  him  cruelly,  though  he  could  not  quite  say  in 
what  way.  Her  very  helplessness  seemed  to  make  her 
so  much  stronger  than  he. 

"  I  am  awfully  ignorant  on  general  matter^;,  although  I 
have  worked  so  hard,"  he  said,  to  turn  the  subject.  "  I 
am  absorbed  in  Theology,  you  kno\\\  And  what  do  you 
think  I  should  be  doing  just  about  now  if  you  weren't 
here  }  I  should  be  saying  my  evening  prayers.  I  suppose 
you  wouldn't  like — " 

"  Oh  no.  no  !"  she  answered  ;  "  I  would  rather  not,  if  you 
don't  mind.     I  should  seem  so — such  a  hypocrite." 

"I  thought  you  wouldn't  join,  so  I  didn't  propose  it. 
You  must  remember  that  I  hope  to  be  a  useful  minister 
some  day." 


176  JUDE   THE   OBSCURE 

"To  be  ordained,  I  think  you  said  ?" 

"Yes." 

"  Then  you  haven't  given  up  the  idea  ?  I  thought  that 
perhaps  you  had  by  this  time." 

"  Of  course  not.  I  fondly  thought  at  first  that  you  felt 
as  I  do  about  that,  as  you  were  so  steeped  in  Christmin- 
ster.     And  Mr.  Phillotson — " 

"  I  have  no  respect  for  Christminster  whatever,  except, 
in  a  qualified  degree,  on  its  intellectual  side,"  said  Sue 
Bridehead,  earnestly.  "  My  friend  I  spoke  of  took  that 
out  of  me.  He  was  the  most  irreligious  man  1  ever  knew, 
and  the  most  moral.  And  intellect  at  Christminster  is 
new  wine  in  old  bottles.  The  medisevalism  of  Christmin- 
ster must  go,  be  sloughed  ofif,  or  Christminster  itself  will 
have  to  go.  To  be  sure,  at  times  one  couldn't  help  hav- 
ing a  sneaking  liking  for  the  traditions  of  the  old  faith,  as 
preserved  by  a  section  of  the  thinkers  there  in  touching 
and  simple  sincerity ;  but  when  I  was  in  my  saddest,  Tight- 
est, mind  I  always  felt, 

"  '  O  ghastly  glories  of  saints,  dead  limbs  of  gibbeted  Gods !'"... 

"Sue,  you  are  not  a  good  friend  of  mine  to  talk  like 
that!" 

"  Then  I  won't,  dear  Jude !"  The  emotional  throat-note 
had  come  back,  and  she  turned  her  face  away. 

"  I  still  think  Christmiinster  has  much  that  is  glorious, 
though  I  was  resentful  because  I  couldn't  get  there."  He 
spoke  gently,  and  resisted  his  impulse  to  pique  her  on  to 
tears. 

"  It  is  an  ignorant  place,  except  as  to  tlie  townspeople, 
artisans,  drunkards,  and  paupers,"  she  said,  hurt  still  at 
his  differing  from  her.  "T/uy  see  life  as  it  is,  of  course  ; 
but  few  of  the  people  in  the  colleges  do.  You  prove  it  in 
your  own  person.  You  are_oiTg_af-tl^€  very, meg  Christmin- 
ster  was  intended  for  when  the  colleges  were  founded  ;  a 
man  with  a  passion  for  learning,  but  no  money,  or  opportu- 


AT   MELCHESTER  177 

nities,  or  friends.    But  you  were  elbowed  off  the  pavement 
by  the  millionaires'  sons." 

"Well,  I  can  do  without  what  it  confers.  I  care  for 
something  higher." 

"And   I  for  something  broader,  truer,"  she   insisted.^/^ 
"  At  present  intellect  in  Christminster  is  pushing  one  waA    '■  ^^..,  . 
and  religion  the  other  ;  and  so  they  stand  stockstill,  like         "^--^ 
two  rams  butting  each  other."  '  ■ . 

"  What  would  Mr.  Phillotson— " 

"  It  is  a  place  full  of  fetichists  and  ghost-seers !" 

He  noticed  that  whenever  he  tried  to  speak  of  the 
school-master  she  turned  the  conversation  to  some  gen- 
eralizations about  the  offending  University.  Jude  was 
extremely,  morbidly,  curious  about  her  life  as  Phillotson's 
protegee  and  betrothed  ;  yet  she  would  not  enlighten 
him. 

"  Well,  that's  just  what  I  am,  too,"  he  said.  "  I  am  fear- 
ful of  life,  spectre-seeing  always." 

"  But  you  are  good  and  dear  !"  she  murmured. 

His  heart  bumped,  and  he  made  no  reply. 

"You  are  in  the  Tractarian  stage  just  now,  are  you 
not?"  she  added,  putting  on  flippancy  to  hide  real  feel- 
in£r,  a  common  trick  with  her.  "  Let  me  see — when  was  I 
there?— In  the  year  eighteen  hundred  and — " 

"There's  a  sarcasm  in  that  which  is  rather  unpleasant 
to  me.  Sue.  Now  will  you  do  what  I  want  you  to  ?  At 
this  time  I  read  a  chapter,  and  then  say  prayers,  as  I  told 
you.  Now  will  you  concentrate  your  attention  on  any 
book  of  these  you  like,  and  sit  with  your  back  to  me,  and 
leave  me  to  my  custom  ?     You  arc  sure  you  won't  join 

"  I'll  look  at  you." 

"  No.     Don't  tease.  Sue  !" 

"  Very  well— I'll  do  just  as  you  bid  me,  and  I  won't  vex 
you,  Jude,"  she  replied,  in  the  tone  of  a  child  who  was  go- 
ing to  be  good  forever  after,  turning  her  back  upon  him 
accordingly.    A  small  Bible  other  than  the  one  he  used 


178  JUDE  THE  OBSCURE 

lay  near  her,  and  during  his  retreat  she  took  it  up,  and 
turned  over  the  leaves. 

"  Jude,"  she  said,  brightly,  when  he  had  finished  and 
come  back  to  her,  "  will  you  let  me  make  you  a  new  New 
Testament,  like  the  one  I  made  for  myself  at  Christmin- 
ster?" 

"  Oh  yes.     How  was  that  made  ?" 

"  I  altered  my  old  one  by  cutting  up  all  the  Epistles  and 
Gospels  into  separate  brochures,  and  rearranging  them  in 
chronological  order  as  written,  beginning  the  book  with 
Romans,  following  on  with  the  early  Epistles,  and  putting 
the  Gospels  much  further  on.     Then  I  had  the  volume 

rebound.      My  University  friend  Mr. (but  never  mind 

his  name,  poor  boy)  said  it  was  an  excellent  idea.  1  know 
that  reading  it  afterwards  made  it  twice  as  interesting  as 
before,  and  twice  as  understandable." 

"  H'm  !"  said  Jude,  with  a  sense  of  sacrilege. 

"  And  what  a  literary  enormity  this  is,"  she  said,  as 
she  glanced  into  the  pages  of  Solomon's  Song.  "  I  mean 
the  synopsis  at  the  head  of  each  chapter,  explaining  away 
the  real  nature  of  that  rhapsody.  You  needn't  be  alarmed : 
nobody  claims  inspiration  for  the  chapter  headings.  In- 
deed, many  divines  treat  them  with  contempt.  It  seems 
the  drollest  thing  to  think  of  the  four-and-twenty  elders, 
or  bishops,  or  whatever  number  they  were,  sitting  with 
long  faces  and  writing  down  such  misinformation." 

Jude  looked  pained.  "  You  are  quite  Voltairean !"  he 
murmured. 

"  Indeed  ?  Then  I  won't  say  any  more,  except  that  peo- 
ple have  no  right  to  falsify  the  Bible !  I  hate  such  hum- 
bug as  could  attempt  to  plaster  over  with  ecclesiastical 
abstractions  such  ecstatic,  natural,  human  love  as  lies  in 
that  great  and  passionate  song !"  Her  speech  had  grown 
spirited,  and  almost  petulant  at  his  rebuke,  and  her  eyes 
moist,  "  I  ivish  I  had  a  friend  here  to  support  me ;  but 
nobody  is  ever  on  my  side  !" 

"  But,  ray  dear  Sue,  my  very  dear  Sue,  I  am  not  against 


AT    MELCHESTER  I79 

you !"  he  said,  taking  her  hand,  and  surprised  at  her  in- 
troducing personal  feehng  into  mere  argument. 

"  Yes,  you  are — yes,  you  are  !"  she  cried,  turning  away 
her  face  that  he  might  not  see  her  brimming  eyes.  "  You 
are  on  the  side  of  the  people  in  the  Training-School  —  at 
least,  you  seem  almost  to  be  !  What  I  insist  on  is,  that  to 
explain  such  verses  as  this  :  '  Whither  is  thy  beloved  gone, 
O  thou  fairest  among  women  }'  by  the  note  :  '  T/te  Church 
frofesscth  her  faith  '  is  supremely  ridiculous  !" 

"  Well,  then,  let  it  be  !  You  make  such  a  personal  mat- 
ter of  everything  !  I  am  —  only  too  inclined  just  now  to 
apply  the  words  profanely.  You  know,  yozi  are  fairest 
among  women  to  me,  come  to  that !" 

"  But  you  are  not  to  say  it  now  !"  Sue  replied,  her  voice 
changing  to  its  softest  note  of  severity.  Then  their  eyes 
met,  and  they  shook  hands  like  cronies  in  a  tavern,  and 
Jude  saw  the  absurdity  of  quarrelling  on  such  a  hypothet- 
ical subject,  and  she  the  silliness  of  crying  about  what  was 
written  in  an  old  book  like  the  Bible. 

"I  won't  disturb  your  convictions — I  really  won't  !" 
she  went  on  soothingly,  for  now  he  was  rather  more  ruf- 
fled than  she.  "  But  I  did  want  and  long  to  ennoble 
some  man  to  high  aims;  and  when  I  saw  you,  and  knew 
you  wanted  to  be  my  comrade,  I — shall  I  confess  it.-* — 
thought  that  man  might  be  you.  But  you  take  so  much 
tradition  on  trust  that  I  don't  know  what  to  say." 

"  Well,  dear,  I  suppose  one  must  take  some  things  on 
trust.  Life  isn't  long  enough  to  work  out  everything  in 
Euclid  problems  before  you  believe  it.  I  take  Chris- 
tianity." 

"  Well,  perhaps  you  might  take  something  worse." 

"  Indeed  I  might.  Perhaps  I  have  done  so."  He 
thought  of  Arabella. 

"  I  won't  ask  what,  because  we  are  going  to  be  very 
nice  with  each  other,  aren't  we,  and  never,  never  vex 
each  other  any  more .''"  She  looked  up  trustfully,  and 
her  voice  seemed  trying  to  nestle  in  his  breast. 


l8o  JUDE  THE  OBSCURE 

"  I  shall  always  care  for  you  !"  said  Jude. 

"And  I  for  you.  Because  you  are  single-hearted,  and 
forgiving  to  your  faulty  and  tiresome  little  Sue  !" 

He  looked  away,  for  that  epicene  tenderness  of  hers 
was  too  harrowing.  Was  it  that  which  had  broken  the 
heart  of  the  poor  leader-writer;  and  was  he  to  be  the 
next  one.'  .  .  .  But  Sue  was  so  dear!  ...  If  he  could  only 
get  over  the  sense  of  her  sex,  as  she  seemed  to  be  able  to 
do  so  easily  of  his,  what  a  comrade  she  would  make  ;  for 
their  difference  of  opinion  on  conjectural  subjects  only 
drew  them  closer  together  on  matters  of  daily  human  ex- 
perience. She  was  nearer  to  him  than  any  other  woman 
he  had  ever  met,  and  he  could  scarcely  believe  that  time, 
creed,  or  absence  would  ever  divide  him  from  her. 

But  his  grief  at  her  incredulities  returned.  They  sat 
on  till  she  fell  asleep  again,  and  he  nodded  in  his  chair 
likewise.  Whenever  he  aroused  himself  he  turned  her 
things,  and  made  up  the  fire  anew.  About  six  o'clock  he 
awoke  completely,  and,  lighting  a  candle,  found  that  her 
clothes  were  dry.  Her  chair  being  a  far  more  comforta- 
ble one  than  his,  she  still  slept  on,  inside  his  great-coat, 
looking  warm  as  a  new  bun  and  boyish  as  a  Ganymedes. 
Placing  the  garments  by  her,  and  touching  her  on  the 
shoulder,  he  went  down-stairs  and  washed  himself  by  star- 
light in  the  yard. 


i^' 


When  he  returned  she  was  dressed  as  usual. 

"Now  could  I  get  out  without  anybody  seeing  me?" 
she  asked.     "  The  town  is  not  yet  astir." 

"  But  you  hav'C  had  no  breakfast  ?" 

"  Oh,  I  don't  want  any  !  I  fear  I  ought  not  to  have  run 
away  from  that  school !  Things  seem  so  difTerent  in  the 
C£>ld  light  of  morning,  don't  they.'  What  Mr.  Phillotson 
will  say  I  don't  know  I  It  was  quite  by  his  wish  that  I 
went  there.  He  is  the  only  man  in  the  world  for  whom 
I  have  any  respect  or  fear.  I  hope  he'll  forgive  me  ;  but 
he'll  scold  me  dreadfully,  I  expect !" 

"  I'll  go  to  him  and  explain —  "  began  Jude. 

"  Oh  no,  you  sha'n't.  I  don't  care  for  him  I  He  may 
think  what  he  likes — I  shall  do  just  as  I  choose  !" 

"  But  you  just  this  moment  said — " 

"Well,  if  I  did,  I  shall  do  as  I  like  for  all  him  !  I  have 
thought  of  what  I  shall  do — go  to  the  sister  of  one  of  my 
fellow -students  in  the  Training-School,  who  has  asked 
me  to  visit  her.  She  has  a  school  near  Shaston,  about 
eighteen  miles  from  here — and  I  shall  stay  there  till  this 
has  blown  over,  and  I  get  back  to  the  Train ing-School 
again." 

At  the  last  moment  he  persuaded  her  to  let  him  make 
her  a  cup  of  coffee,  in  a  portable  apparatus  he  kept  in  his 
room  for  use  on  rising  to  go  to  his  work  every  day  before 
the  household  was  astir. 

"Now  a  dew-bit  to  eat  with  it,"  he  said,  "and  oflf  we 
go.  You  can  have  a  regular  breakfast  when  you  get 
there." 


l82  JUDE   THE   OBSCURE 

They  went  quietly  out  of  the  house,  Jude  accompany- 
ing her  to  the  station.  As  they  departed  along  the  street 
a  head  was  softly  thrust  out  of  an  upper  window,  and  quick- 
ly withdrawn.  Sue  still  seemed  sorry  for  her  rashness, 
and  to  wish  she  had  not  rebelled,  telling  him  at  parting 
that  she  would  let  him  know  as  soon  as  she  sjot  re- 
admitted  to  the  Training- School.  They  stood  rather 
miserably  together  on  the  platform,  and  it  was  apparent 
that  he  wanted  to  say  more. 

"  I  want  to  tell  you  something — two  things,"  he  said, 
hurriedly,  as  the  train  came  up.  "  One  is  a  warm  one,  the 
other  a  cold  one  !" 

"  Jude,"  she  said,  "  I  know  one  of  them.  And  you 
mustn't !" 

"  What  ?" 

"You  mustn't  love  me.  You  are  to  like  me  —  that's 
all !" 

Jude's  face  became  so  full  of  complicated  glooms  that 
hers  was  agitated  in  sympathy  as  she  bade  him  adieu 
through  the  carriage  window.  And  then  the  train  moved 
on,  and,  waving  her  pretty  hand  to  him,  she  vanished 
away. 

Melchester  was  a  dismal  place  enough  for  Jude  that 
Sunday  of  her  departure,  and  the  Close  so  hateful  that 
he  did  not  go  once  to  the  Cathedral  services.  The  next 
morning  there  came  a  letter  from  her,  which,  with  her 
usual  promptitude,  she  had  written  directly  she  had 
reached  her  friend's  house.  She  told  him  of  her  safe  ar- 
rival and  comfortable  quarters,  and  then  added  : 

"  What  I  really  write  about,  dear  Jude,  is  something  I  said  to 
you  at  parting.  You  had  been  so  very  good  and  kind  to  me  that 
when  you  were  out  of  sight  I  felt  what  a  cruel  and  ungrateful 
woman  I  was  to  say  it,  and  it  has  reproached  me  ever  since.  If 
you  want  to  love  me,  Jude,  you  may  :  I  don't  mind  at  all  ;  and 
I'll  never  say  again  that  you  mustn't  ! 


AT  MELCHESTER  183 

"Now  I  won't  write  any  more  about  that.  You  do  forgive 
your  thoughtless  friend  for  her  cruelty  ?  and  won't  make  her  mis- 
erable by  saying  you  don't? — Ever,  Sue." 

It  would  be  superfluous  to  say  what  his  answer  was, 
and  how  he  thought  what  he  would  have  done  had  he 
been  free,  which  should  have  rendered  a  long  residence 
with  a  female  friend  quite  unnecessary  for  Sue.  He  felt 
he  might  have  been  pretty  sure  of  his  own  victory,  if  it 
had  come  to  a  conflict  between  Phillotson  and  himself 
for  the  possession  of  her. 

Yet  Jude  was  in  danger  of  attaching  more  meaning  to 
Sue's  impulsive  note  than  it  really  was  intended  to  bear. 

After  the  lapse  of  a  few  days  he  found  himself  hoping 
that  she  would  write  again.  But  he  received  no  further 
communication  ;  and,  in  the  intensity  of  his  solicitude,  he 
sent  another  note,  suggesting  that  he  should  pay  her  a 
visit  some  Sunday,  the  distance  being  under  eighteen 
miles. 

He  expected  a  reply  on  the  second  morning  after  de- 
spatching his  missive  ;  but  none  came.  The  third  morn- 
ing arrived;  the  postman  did  not  stop.  This  was  Satur- 
day, and  in  a  feverish  state  of  anxiety  about  her  he  sent 
off  three  brief  lines,  stating  that  he  was  coming  the  fol- 
lowing day,  for  he  felt  sure  something  had  happened. 

His  first  and  natural  thought  had  been  that  she  was  ill 
from  her  immersion  ;  but  it  soon  occurred  to  him  that 
somebody  would  have  written  for  her  in  such  a  case. 
Conjectures  were  put  an  end  to  by  his  arrival  at  the 
village  school-house  near  Shaston  on  the  bright  morning 
of  Sunday,  between  eleven  and  twelve  o'clock,  when  the 
parish  was  as  vacant  as  a  desert,  most  of  the  inhabitants 
having  gathered  inside  the  church,  whence  their  voices 
could  occasionally  be  heard  in  unison. 

A  little  girl  opened  the  door.  "  Miss  Bridehcad  is  up- 
stairs," she  said.     "  And  will  you  please  walk  up  to  her?" 

"  Is  she  ill  ?"  asked  Jude,  hastily. 


184  JUDE  THE  OBSCURE 

"  Only  a  little — not  very." 

Jude  entered  and  ascended.  On  reaching  the  landing 
a  voice  told  him  which  way  to  turn — the  voice  of  Sue 
calling  his  name.  He  passed  the  doorwa3%  and  found 
her  lying  in  a  little  bed  in  a  room  a  dozen  feet  square. 

"Oh,  Sue !"  he  cried,  sitting  down  beside  her  and  tak- 
ing her  hand,  "  how  is  this  .''     You  couldn't  write  .-*" 

"  No — it  wasn't  that!"  she  answered.  "  I  did  catch  a 
bad  cold — but  I  could  have  written.     Only  I  wouldn't !" 

"  Why  not  ?— frightening  me  like  this  I" 

"  Yes — that  was  what  I  was  afraid  of !  But  I  had  de- 
cided not  to  write  to  you  any  more.  They  won't  have 
me  back  at  the  school — that's  why  I  couldn't  write.  Not 
the  fact,  but  the  reason  !" 

"Well?" 

"  They  not  only  won't  have  me,  but  they  give  me  a 
parting  piece  of  advice — " 

"  What  ?" 

She  did  not  answer  directly.  "  I  vowed  I  never  would 
tell  you,  Jude — it  is  so  vulgar  and  distressing!" 

"  Is  it  about  us?" 

"Yes." 

"  But  do  tell  me  !" 

"  Well — somebody  has  sent  them  baseless  reports  about 
us,  and  they  say  you  and  I  ought  to  marry  as  soon  as 
possible,  for  the  sake  of  my  reputation  !  .  .  .  There — now 
I  have  told  you,  and  I  wish  I  hadn't !" 

"  Oh,  poor  Sue  !" 

"  I  don't  think  of  you  like  that  means  !  It  did  just  oc- 
cur to  me  to  regard  you  in  the  way  they  think  I  do,  but 
I  hadn't  begun  to.  I  /lavc  recognized  that  the  cousinship 
was  merely  nominal,  since  we  met  as  total  strangers.  But 
my  marrying  you,  dear  Jude  —  why,  of  course,  if  I  had 
reckoned  upon  marrying  you  I  shouldn't  have  come  to 
you  so  often  !  And  I  never  supposed  you  thought  of 
such  a  thing  as  marrying  me  till  the  other  evening,  when 
I  began  to  fancy  you  did  love  me  a  little.     Perhaps  I 


AT   MELCHESTER  185 


I 


ought  not  to  have  been  so  intimate  with  you.     It  is  all 

my  fault.     Ev^erything  is  my  fault  always  !"  ,(j) 

The  speech  seemed  a  little  forced  and  unreal,  and  they 
regarded  each  other  with  a  mutual  distress. 

"  I  was  so  bjind  at  first !"  she  went  on.     "  I  didn't  see        <7  ^j- 
what  you  felt  at  all.     Oh,  you  have  been  unkind  to  me —  a// 

you  have — to  look  upon  me  as  a  sweetheart  withouLs,ay:^___^  Ai'    . 
ing  a  word,  and  leaving  me  to  discover  it  myself !     Your      -'^     j 
attittrtleTo  me  has  become  known;  and,  naturally,  they       -     ^ 
think   we've   been   doing  wrong!     I'll   never   trust  you  ^^i 

again !"  yS^ 

"Yes,  Sue,"  he  said,  simply,  "  I  am  to  blame  —  more        ^ 
than  you  think.     I  was  quite  aware  that  you  did  not  sus-        Vi 
pect  till  within  the  last  meeting  or  two  what  I  was  feeling 
about  you.     I  admit  that  our  meeting  as  strangers  pre-  ^^^^ 
vented  a  sense  of  relationship,  and  that  it  was  a  sort  of 
subterfuge  to  avail  myself  of  it.    But  don't  you  think  I  de- 
serve a  little  consideration  for  concealing  my  wrong,  very 
wrong,  sentiments,  since  I  couldn't  help  having  them?" 

She  turned  her  eyes  doubtfully  towards  him,  and  then 
looked  away,  as  if  afraid  she  might  forgive  him. 

By  every  law  of  nature  and  sex  a  kiss  was  the  only  re- 
joinder that  fitted  the  mood  and  the  moment,  under  the 
suasion  of  which  Sue's  undemonstrative  regard  of  him 
might  not  inconceivably  have  changed  its  temperature. 
Some  men  would  have  cast  scruples  to  the  winds,  and 
ventured  it,  oblivious  both  of  Sue's  declaration  of  her 
neutral  feelings,  and  of  the  pair  of  autographs  in  the  ves- 
try chest  of  Arabella's  parish  church.  Jude  did  not.  He 
had,  in  fact,  come  in  part  to  tell  his  own  fatal  story.  It 
was  upon  his  lips;  yet  at  the  hour  of  this  distress  he 
could  not  disclose  it.  He  preferred  to  dwell  upon  the 
recognized  barriers  between  them. 

"Of  course — I  know  you  don't — care  about  me  in  any 
particular  way,"  he  said,  huskily.  "  You  ought  not,  and 
you  are  right.  You  belong  to — Mr.  Phillotson.  I  sup- 
pose he  has  been  to  see  you .'" 


l86  JUDE  THE  OBSCURE 

"Yes,"  she  said,  shortly,  her  face  changing  a  little. 
"Though  I  didn't  ask  him  to  come.  You  are  glad,  of 
course,  that  he  has  been  !  But  I  shouldn't  care  if  he 
didn't  come  any  more  !" 

It  was  very  perplexing  to  her  lover  that  she  should 
be  piqued  at  his  honest  acquiescence  in  his  riv^al,  if  Jude's 
feelings  of  love  were  deprecated  by  her.  He  went  on  to 
something  else. 

"  This  will  blow  over,  dear  Sue,"  he  said.  "  "  The  Train- 
ing-School authorities  are  not  all  the  world.  You  can 
get  to  be  a  student  in  some  other,  no  doubt." 

"  I'll  ask  Mr.  Phillotson,"  she  said,  decisively. 

Sue's  kind  hostess  now  returned  from  church,  and 
there  was  no  more  intimate  conversation.  Jude  left  in 
the  afternoon,  hopelessly  unhappy.  But  he  had  seen 
her,  and  sat  with  her.  Such  intercourse  as  that  would 
have  to  content  him  for  the  remainder  of  his  life.  The 
lesson  of  renunciation  it  was  necessary  and  proper  that 
he,  as  a  parish  priest,  should  learn. 

But  the  next  morning  when  he  awoke  he  felt  rather 
vexed  with  her,  and  decided  that  she  was  rather  unreason- 
able, not  to  say  capricious.  Then,  in  illustration  of  what 
he  had  begun  to  discern  as  one  of  her  redeeming  char- 
acteristics, there  came  promptly  a  note,  which  she  must 
have  written  almost  immediately  he  had  gone  from  her. 

"Forgive  me  for  my  petulance  yesterday!  I  was  horrid  to 
you  ;  I  know  it,  and  I  feel  perfectly  miserable  at  my  horridness. 
It  was  so  dear  of  you  not  to  be  angry  !  Jude,  please  still  keep 
me  as  your  friend  and  associate,  with  all  my  faults.  I'll  try  not 
to  be  like  it  again. 

"I  am  coming  to  Melchester  on  Saturday,  to  get  my  things 
away  from  the  T.  S.,  &c.  I  could  walk  with  you  for  half  an  hour, 
if  you  would  like. — Your  repentant,  SUE." 

Jude  forgave  her  straightway,  and  asked  her  to  call  for 
him  at  the  Cathedral  works  when  she  came. 


IL^ 


u 


VI 

Meanwhile  a  middle-aged  man  was  dreaming  a 
dream  of  great  beauty  concerning  the  writer  of  the 
above  letter.  He  was  Richard  Phillotson,  who  had  re- 
cently removed  from  the  mixed  village  school  at  Lums- 
don,  near  Christminster,  to  undertake  a  large  boys'  school 
in  his  native  town  of  Shaston,  which  stood  on  a  hill  sixty 
miles  to  the  southwest  as  the  crow  flies. 

A  glance  at  the  place  and  its  accessories  was  almost 
enough  to  reveal  that  the  school  -  master's  plans  and 
dreams  so  long  indulged  in  had  been  abandoned  for 
some  new  dream  with  which  neither  the  Church  nor 
literature  had  much  in  common.  Essentially  an  un- 
practical man,  he  was  now  bent  on  making  and  saving  /^ 
money  for  a  practical  purpose — that  of  keeping  a  wife, 
v>rho,  if  she  chose,  might  conduct  one  of  the  girls'  schools 
adjoining  his  own  ;  for  which  purpose  he  had  advised 
her  to  go  into  training,  since  she  would  not  marry  him 
ofif-hand. 

About  the  time  that  Jude  was  removing  from  Mary- 
green  to  Mclchester,  and  entering  on  adventures  at  the 
latter  place  with  Sue,  the  school  -  master  was  settling 
down  in  the  new  school-house  at  Shaston.  All  the  fur- 
niture being  fixed,  the  books  shelved,  and  the  nails 
driven,  he  had  begun  to  sit  in  his  parlor  during  the  dark 
winter  nights  and  reattempt  some  of  his  old  studies — 
one  branch  of  which  had  included  Roman-Britannic  an- 
tiquities— an  unremunerative  labor  for  a  National  school- 
master, but  a  subject  that,  after  his  abandonment  of  the 
University  scheme,  had  interested  him  as  being  a  com- 


l88  JUDE  THE  OBSCURE 

paratively  unworked  mine ;  practicable  to  those  who, 
like  himself,  had  liv'cd  in  lonely  spots  where  these  re- 
mains were  abundant,  and  were  seen  to  compel  inferences 
in  startling  contrast  to  accepted  views  on  the  civilization 
of  that  time. 

A  resumption  of  this  investigation  was  the  outward 
and  apparent  hobby  of  Phillotson  at  present — his  osten- 
sible reason  for  going  alone  into  fields  where  causeways, 
dykes,  and  tumuli  abounded,  or  shutting  himself  up  in 
his  house  with  a  few  urns,  tiles,  and  mosaics  he  had  col- 
lected, instead  of  calling  round  upon  his  new  neighbors, 
who,  for  their  part,  had  showed  themselves  willing  enough 
to  be  friendly  with  him.  But  it  was  not  the  real,  or  the 
whole,  reason,  after  all.  Thus,  on  a  particular  evening  in 
the  month,  when  it  had  grown  quite  late — to  near  mid- 
night, indeed — and  the  light  of  his  lamp,  shining  from  his 
window  at  a  salient  angle  of  the  hill-top  town  over  infi- 
nite miles  of  valley  westward,  announced  as  by  words  a 
place  and  person  given  over  to  study,  he  was  not  exactly 
studying. 

The  interior  of  the  room — the  books,  the  furniture,  the 
school-master's  loose  coat,  his  attitude  at  the  table,  even 
the  flickering  of  the  fire,  bespoke  the  same  dignified  tale 
of  undistracted  research — more  than  creditable  to  a  man 
who  had  had  no  advantages  beyond  those  of  his  own 
making.  And  yet  the  tale,  true  enough  till  latterl}'',  was 
not  true  now.  What  he  was  regarding  was  not  history. 
They  were  historic  notes,  written  in  a  bold  womanly 
hand  at  his  dictation  some  months  before,  and  it  was 
the  clerical  rendering  of  word  after  word  that  absorbed 
him. 

He  presently  took  from  a  drawer  a  carefully  tied  bun- 
dle of  letters  —  few,  very  few,  as  correspondence  counts 
nowadays.  Each  was  in  its  envelope  just  as  it  had  ar- 
rived, and  the  handwriting  was  of  the  same  womanly 
character  as  the  historic  notes.  He  unfolded  them  one 
by  one,  and   read  them   musingly.     At  first  sight  there 


AT   MELCHESTER  189 

seemed  in  these  small  documents  to  be  absolutely  noth- 
ing to  muse  over.  They  were  straightforward,  frank  let- 
ters, signed  "  Sue  B —  "  ;  just  such  ones  as  would  be  writ- 
ten during  short  absences,  with  no  other  thought  than 
their  speedy  destruction,  and  chiefly  concerning  books 
in  reading  and  other  experiences  of  a  Training -School, 
forgotten  doubtless  by  the  writer  with  the  passing  of  the 
day  of  their  inditing.  In  one  of  them — quite  a  recent 
note — the  young  woman  said  that  she  had  received  his 
considerate  letter,  and  that  it  was  honorable  and  gener- 
ous of  him  to  say  he  would  not  come  to  see  her  oftener 
than  she  desired  (the  school  being  such  an  awkward  place 
for  callers,  and  because  of  her  strong  wish  that  her  en- 
gagement to  him  should  not  be  known,  which  it  would 
infallibly  be  if  he  visited  her  often).  Over  these  phrases 
the  school-master  pored.  What  precise  shade  of  satis- 
faction was  to  be  gathered  from  a  woman's  gratitude  that 
the  man  who  loved  her  had  not  been  often  to  see  her? 
The  problem  occupied  him,  distracted  him. 

He  opened  another  drawer,  and  found  therein  an  en- 
velope, from  which  he  drew  a  photograph  of  Sue  as  a 
child,  long  before  he  had  known  her,  standing  under  trel- 
lis-work with  a  little  basket  in  her  hand.  There  was 
another  of  her  as  a  young  woman,  her  dark  eyes  and  hair 
making  a  very  distinct  and  attractive  picture  of  her,  which 
just  disclosed,  too,  the  thoughtfulness  that  lay  behind  her 
lighter  moods.  It  was  a  duplicate  of  the  one  she  had'^ 
given  Jude,  and  would  have  given  to  any  man.  Phillot- 
son  brought  it  half-way  to  his  lips,  but  withdrew  it  in 
doubt  at  her  perplexing  phrases;  ultimately  kissing  the 
dead  pasteboard  with  all  the  passionatencss,  and,  more 
than  all,  the  devotion,  of  a  young  man  of  eighteen. 

The  school-master's  was  an  unhealthy-looking,  old-fash- 
ioned face,  rendered  more  old-fashioned  by  his  style  of 
shaving.  A  certain  gentlemanlincss  had  been  imparted 
to  it  by  nature,  suggesting  an  inherent  wish  to  do  rightly 
by  all.     His  speech  was  a  little  slow,  but  his  tones  were 


190  JUDE  THE  OBSCURE 

sincere  enough  to  make  his  hesitation  no  defect.  His 
graying  hair  was  curly,  and  radiated  from  a  point  in  the 
middle  of  his  crown.  There  were  four  lines  across  his 
forehead,  and  he  only  wore  spectacles  when  reading  at 
night.  It  was  almost  certainly  a  renunciation  forced  upon 
him  by  his  academic  purpose,  rather  than  a  distaste  for 
women,  which  had  hitherto  kept  him  from  closing  with 
one  of  the  sex  in  matrimony. 

Such  silent  proceedings  as  those  of  this  evening  were 
repeated  many  and  oft  times  when  he  was  not  under  the 
eye  of  the  boys,  whose  quick  and  penetrating  regard 
would  frequently  become  almost  intolerable  to  the  self- 
conscious  master  in  his  present  anxious  care  for  Sue, 
making  him,  in  the  gray  hours  of  morning,  dread  to  meet 
anew  the  gimlet  glances,  lest  they  should  read  what  the 
dream  within  him  was. 

He  had  honorably  acquiesced  in  Sue's  announced  wish 
that  he  was  not  often  to  visit  her  at  the  Training-School ; 
but  at  length,  his  patience  being  sorely  tried,  he  set  out 
one  Saturday  afternoon  to  pay  her  an  unexpected  call. 
There  the  news  of  her  departure — expulsion  as  it  might 
almost  have  been  considered  —  was  flashed  upon  him 
without  warning  or  mitigation  as  he  stood  at  the  door, 
expecting  in  a  few  minutes  to  behold  her  face  ;  and  when 
he  turned  away  he  could  hardly  see  the  road  before 
him. 

Sue  had,  in  fact,  never  written  a  line  to  her  suitor  on 
the  subject,  although  it  was  fourteen  days  old.  A  short 
reflection  told  him  that  this  proved  nothing,  a  natural  del- 
icacy being  as  ample  a  reason  for  silence  as  any  degree 
of  blameworthiness. 

They  had  informed  him  at  the  school  where  she  was 
living,  and  having  no  immediate  anxiety  about  her  com- 
fort, his  thoughts  took  the  direction  of  a  burning  indig- 
nation against  the  Training-School  Committee.  In  his 
bewilderment  Phillotson  entered  the  adjacent  cathedral, 
just  now  in  a  direly  dismantled  state  by   reason  of  the 


AT   MELCHESTER  I9I 

repairs.  He  sat  down  on  a  block  of  freestone,  regardless 
of  the  dusty  imprint  it  made  on  his  breeches;  and  his 
listless  eyes  following  the  movements  of  the  workmen,  he 
presently  became  aware  that  the  reputed  culprit,  Sue's 
lover  Jude,  was  one  amongst  them. 

Jude  had  never  spoken  to  his  former  hero  since  the 
meeting  by  the  model  of  Jerusalem.  Having  inadvert- 
ently witnessed  Phillotson's  tentative  courtship  of  Sue 
in  the  lane,  there  had  grown  up  in  the  younger  man's  mind 
a  curious  dislike  to  think  of  the  elder,  to  meet  him,  to 
communicate  in  any  way  with  him  ;  and  since  Phillotson's 
success  in  obtaining  at  least  her  promise  had  become 
known  to  Jude,  he  had  frankly  recognized  that  he  did  not 
wish  to  see  or  hear  of  his  senior  any  more,  learn  anything 
of  his  pursuits,  or  even  imagine  again  what  excellencies 
might  appertain  to  his  character.  On  this  very  day  of  the 
school-master's  visit  Jude  was  expecting  Sue,  as  she  had 
promised,  and  when  therefore  he  saw  the  school-master 
in  the  nave  of  the  building,  saw,  moreover,  that  he  was 
coming  to  speak  to  him,  he  felt  no  little  embarrassment ; 
which  Phillotson's  own  embarrassment  prevented  his  ob- 
serving. 

Jude  joined  him,  and  they  both  withdrew  from  the 
other  workmen  to  the  spot  where  Phillotson  had  been 
sitting.  Jude  offered  him  a  piece  of  sackcloth  for  a  cush- 
ion, and  told  him  it  was  dangerous  to  sit  on  the  bare 
block. 

"  Yes,  yes,"  said  Phillotson,  abstractedly,  as  he  reseated 
himself,  his  eyes  resting  on  the  ground  as  if  he  were  try- 
ing to  remember  where  he  was.  "  I  won't  keep  you 
long.  It  was  merely  that  I  have  heard  that  you  have 
seen  my  little  friend  Sue  recently.  It  occurred  to  me  to 
speak  to  you  on  that  account.  I  merely  want  to  ask — 
about  her." 

"  I  think  I  know  what!"  Jude  hurriedly  said.  "  About 
her  escaping  from  the  Training-Schooi,  and  her  coming 
to  me  ?" 


/ 


192 


JUDE  THE  OBSCURE 


"  Well — "  Jude  for  a  moment  felt  an  unprincipled  and 
fiendish  wish  to  annihilate  his  rival  at  all  cost.  By  the 
exercise  of  that  treachery  which  love  for  the  same  woman 
renders  possible  to  men  the  most  honorable  in  every 
other  relation  of  life,  he  could  send  off  Phillotson  in 
agony  and  defeat  by  saying  that  the  scandal  was  true, 
and  that  Sue  had  irretrievably  committed  herself  to  him. 
But  his  action  did  not  respond  for  a  moment  to  his  animal 
instinct ;  and  what  he  said  was,  "  I  am  glad  of  your  kind- 
ness in  coming  to  talk  plainly  to  me  about  it.  You  know 
what  they  say  .J* — that  I  ought  to  marry  her." 

"  What  !" 

"And  I  wish  with  all  my  soul  I  could  !" 

Phillotson  trembled,  and  his  naturally  pale  face  ac- 
quired a  corpse -like  sharpness  in  its  lines.  "  I  had  no 
idea  that  it  was  of  this  nature  !     God  forbid  !"' 

"  No,  no  !"  said  Jude,  aghast.  "  I  thought  you  under- 
stood ?  I  mean  that  were  I  in  a  position  to  marry  her, 
or  some  one,  and  settle  down,  instead  of  living  in  lodgings 
here  and  there,  I  should  be  glad  !" 

What  he  had  really  meant  was  simply  that  he  loved 
her. 

"  But — since  this  painful  matter  has  been  opened  up — 
what  really  happened?"  asked  Phillotson,  with  the  firm- 
ness of  a  man  who  felt  that  a  sharp  smart  now  was  better 
than  a  long  agony  of  suspense  hereafter.  "  Cases  arise, 
and  this  is  one,  when  even  ungenerous  questions  must  be 
put  to  make  false  assumptions  impossible,  and  to  kill 
scandal." 

Jude  explained  readily;  giving  the  whole  series  of  ad- 
ventures, including  the  night  at  the  shepherd's,  her  wet 
arrival  at  his  lodging,  her  indisposition  from  her  immer- 
sion, their  vigil  of  discussion,  and  his  seeing  her  off  next 


"  Well,  now,"  said  Phillotson,  at  the  conclusion,  "  I  take 
it  as  your  final  word,  and  I  know  I  can  believe  you,  that 


AT   MELCHESTER  1 93 

the  suspicion  which  led  to  her  rustication  is  an  absolutely 
baseless  one  ?" 

"  It  is,"  said  Jude,  solemnly.  "  Absolutely.  So  help 
me  God !" 

The  school  -  master  rose.  Each  of  the  twain  felt  that 
the  interview  could  not  comfortably  merge  in  a  friendly 
discussion  of  their  recent  experiences  after  the  manner 
of  friends;  and  when  Jude  had  taken  him  round,  and 
shown  him  some  features  of  the  renov'ation  which  the  old 
Cathedral  was  undergoing,  Phillotson  bade  the  young 
man  good-day  and  went  away. 

This  visit  took  place  about  eleven  o'clock  in  the  morn- 
ing;  but  no  Sue  appeared.  When  Jude  went  to  his 
dinner  at  one  he  saw  his  beloved  ahead  of  him  in  the 
street  leading  up  from  the  North  Gate,  walking  as  if  in 
no  way  looking  for  him.  Speedily  overtaking  her,  he  re- 
marked that  he  had  asked  her  to  come  to  him  at  the 
Cathedral,  and  she  had  promised. 

"  I  have  been  to  get  my  things  from  the  College,"  she 
said — an  observation  which  he  was  expected  to  take  as 
an  answer,  though  it  was  not  one.  Finding  her  to  be  in 
this  evasive  mood,  he  felt  inclined  to  give  her  the  informa- 
tion so  long  withheld. 

"You  have  not  seen  Mr.  Phillotson  to-day.'"  he  vent- 
ured to  inquire. 

"  I  have  not.  But  I  am  not  going  to  be  cross-exam- 
ined about  him  ;  and  if  you  ask  anything  more  I  won't 
answer  !" 

"  It  is  very  odd  that — "     He  stopped,  regarding  her. 

•'  What }" 

"  That  you  are  never  so  nice  in  your  real  presence  as 
you  are  in  your  letters  !" 

"  Does  it  really  seem  so  to  you  ?"  said  she,  smiling  with 
quick  curiosity.  "  Well,  that's  strange ;  but  I  feel  just 
the  same  about  you,  Jude.  When  you  are  gone  away  I 
seem  such  a  cold-hearted — " 

As  she  knew  his  sentiment  towards  her  Jude  saw  that 

'3 


194  JUDE  THE   OBSCURE 

they  were  getting  upon  dangerous  ground.     It  was  now, 
he  thought,  that  he  must  speak  as  an  honest  man. 

But  he  did  not  speak,  and  she  continued  :  "  It  was  that 
=-^which  made  me  write  and  say — I  didn't  mind  your  loving 
me — if  you  wanted  to,  much  !" 

The  exultation  he  might  have  felt  at  what  that  implied, 
or  seemed  to  imply,  was  nullified  by  his  intention,  and  he 
rested  rigid  till  he  began  :  "  I  have  never  told  you — " 

"Yes,  you  have,"  murmured  she. 

"  I  mean,  I  have  never  told  you  my  history — all  of  it." 

"But  I  guess  it.     I  know  nearly." 

Jude  looked  up.      Could   she   possibly  know  of   that 
,  morning  performance  of  his  with   Arabella,  which   in  a 
few  months  had  ceased  to  be  a  marriage  more  completely 
than  by  death  ?     He  saw  that  she  did  not. 

"  I  can't  quite  tell  you  here  in  the  street,"  he  went  on, 
with  a  gloomy  tongue.  "  And  you  had  better  not  come 
to  my  lodgings.     Let  us  go  in  here." 

The  building  by  which  they  stood  was  the  market- 
house  ;  it  was  the  only  place  available  ;  and  they  entered, 
the  market  being  over,  and  the  stalls  and  areas  empty. 
He  would  have  preferred  a  more  congenial  spot,  but,  as 
usually  happens,  in  place  of  a  romantic  field  or  solemn 
aisle  for  his  tale,  it  was  told  while  they  walked  up  and 
down  over  a  floor  littered  with  rotten  cabbage-leaves,  and 
amid  all  the  usual  squalors  of  decayed  vegetable  matter 
and  unsaleable  refuse.  He  began  and  finished  his  brief 
narrative,  which  merely  led  up  to  the  information  that  he 
had  married  a  wife  some  years  earlier,  and  that  his  wife 
was  living  still.  Almost  before  her  countenance  had  time 
to  change  she  hurried  out  the  words, 

"Why  didn't  you  tell  me  before.''" 

"  I  couldn't.     It  seemed  so  cruel  to  tell  it." 

"  To  yourself.  Judc.  So  it  was  better  to  be  cruel  to 
me!" 

"  No,  dear  darling !"  cried  Jude,  passionately.  He  tried 
to  take  her  hand,  but  she  withdrew  it.     Their  old  rela- 


AT   MELCHESTER  I95 

tions  of  confidence  seemed  suddenly  to  have  ended,  and 
the  antagonisms  of  sex  to  sex  were  left  without  any 
counterpoising  predilections.  She  was  his  comrade, 
friend,  unconscious  sweetheart,  no  longer;  and  her  eyes 
regarded  him  in  estranged  silence. 

"  I  was  ashamed  of  the  episode  in  my  life  which  brought 
about  the  marriage,"  he  continued.  "  I  can't  explain  it 
precisely  now.  I  could  have  done  it  if  you  had  taken  it 
differently  !" 

"  But  how  can  I  ?"  she  burst  out.  "  Here  I  have  been 
saying,  or  writing,  that — that  you  might  love  me,  or  some- 
thing of  the  sort  I — just  out  of  charity — and  all  the  time 
— oh,  it  is  perfectly  damnable  how  things  are  !"  she  said, 
stamping  her  foot  in  a  nervous  quiver. 

"  You  take  me  wrong.  Sue  !  I  never  thought  you  cared 
for  me  at  all,  till  quite  lately ;  so  I  felt  it  did  not  matter  ! 
Do  you  care  for  me.  Sue.' — you  know  how  I  mean? — I 
don't  like  '  out  of  charity  '  at  all !" 

It  was  a  question  which,  in  the  circumstances,  Sue  did 
not  choose  to  answer. 

"I  suppose  she — your  wife — is — a  very  pretty  woman, 
even  if  she's  wicked  }"  she  asked,  quickly. 

"She's  pretty  enough, as  far  as  that  goes." 

"  Prettier  than  I  am,  no  doubt !" 

"  You  are  not  the  least  alike.  And  I  have  never  seen 
her  for  years.  .  .  .  But  she's  suxe,loj:ome  back — they  al- 
ways do !" 

"  How  strange  of  you  to  stay  apart  from  her  like  this  !" 
said  Sue,  her  trembling  lip  and  lumpy  throat  belying  her 
irony — "  you  such  a  religious  man  !  How  will  the  demi- 
gods in  your  Pantheon — I  mean  those  legendary  persons 
you  call  Saints— intercede  for  you  after  this  ?  Now  if  I 
had  done  such  a  thing  it  would  have  been  different,  and 
not  remarkable,  for  I,  at  least,  don't  regard  marriage  as  a 
Sacrament.  Your  theories  are  not  so  advanced  as  your 
practice  !" 

"Sue,  you  are  terribly  cutting  when  you  like  to  be  — 


53 


196  JUDE  THE   OBSCURE 

a  perfect  Voltaire !  But  you  must  treat  me  as  you 
will  !" 

When  she  saw  how  wretched  he  was  she  softened,  and, 
trying  to  blink  away  her  sympathetic  tears,  said,  with  all 
the  winning  reproachfulness  of  a  heart-hurt  woman  :  "Ah 
— you  should  have  told  me  before  you  gave  me  that  idea 
that  you  wanted  to  be  allowed  to  love  me  !  I  had  no  feel- 
ing before  that  moment  at  the  railway-station,  except — " 
For  once  Sue  was  as  miserable  as  he,  in  her  attempts  to 
keep  herself  free  from  emotion,  and  her  less  than  half- 
success. 

"  Don't  cry,  dear!"  he  implored. 

"  I  am — not  crying — because  I  love  you ;  but  because  of 
your  want  of — confidence  !" 

They  were  quite  screened  from  the  Market-square  with- 
out, and  he  could  not  help  putting  out  his  arm  towards 
her  waist.  His  momentary  desire  was  the  means  of  her 
rallying.  "  No,  no  !"  she  said,  drawing  back  stringently, 
and  wiping  her  eyes.  "Of  course  not!  It  would  be  hy- 
pocrisy to  pretend  that  it  would  be  meant  as  from  my 
cousin  ;  and  it  can't  be  in  any  other  way." 

They  moved  on  a  dozen  paces,  and  she  showed  herself 
recovered.  It  was  distracting  to  Jude,  and  his  heart 
would  have  ached  less  had  she  appeared  anyhow  but  as 
she  did  appear — essentially  large-minded  and  generous  on 
reflection,  despite  a  previous  exercise  of  those  narrow 
womanly  humors  on  impulse  that  were  necessary  to  give 
her  sex. 

"  I  don't  blame  you  for  what  you  couldn't  help,"  she 
said,  smiling.  "  How  should  I  be  so  foolish  !  I  do  blame 
you  a  little  bit  for  not  telling  me  before.  But,  after  all,  it 
doesn't  matter.  We  should  have  had  to  keep  apart,  you 
see,  even  if  this  had  not  been  in  your  life." 

"  No,  we  shouldn't.  Sue  !     This  is  the  only  obstacle  !" 

"  You  forget  that  I  must  have  loved  you,  and  wanted  to 
be  your  wife,  even  if  there  had  been  no  obstacle,"  said 
Sue,  with  a  gentle  seriousness  which  did  not  reveal  her 


AT   MELCHESTER  197 

mind.  "  And  then  we  are  cousins,  and  it  is  bad  for  cousins 
to  marry.  And  — I  am  engaged  to  somebody  else.  As 
to  our  going  on  together  as  we  were  going,  in  a  sort  of 
friendly  way,  the  people  round  us  would  have  made  it 
unable  to  continue.  Their  views  of  the  relations  of  man 
and  woman  are  limited,  as  is  proved  by  their  expelling 
me  from  the  school.  Their  philosophy  only  recognizes 
relations  based  on  animal  desire.  The  wide  field  of  strong 
attachment  where  desire  plays,  at  least,  only  a  secondary 
part,  is  ignored  by  them  —  the  part  of  —  who  is  it.? — 
Venus  Urania." 

Her  being  able  to  talk  learnedly  showed  that  she  was 
mistress  of  herself  again  ;  and  before  they  parted  she  had 
almost  regained  her  vivacious  glance,  her  reciprocity  of 
tone,  her  gay  manner,  and  her  second -thought  attitude 
of  critical  largeness  towards  others  of  her  age  and  sex. 

He  could  speak  more  freely  now.  "  There  were  several' 
reasons  against  my  telling  you  rashly.  One  was  what  I 
have  said  ;  another,  that  it  was  always  impressed  upon  me 
that  I  ought  not  to  marry — that  I  belonged  to  an  odd  and 
peculiar  family — the  wrong  breed  for  marriage." 

"  Ah — who  used  to  say  that  to  you  }" 

"  My  great-aunt.  She  said  it  always  ended  badly  with 
us  Fawleys." 

"  That's  strange !  My  father  used  to  say  the  same  to 
me!" 

They  stood  possessed  by  the  same  thought,  ugly  enough, 
even  as  an  assumption  ;  that  a  union  between  them,  had 
such  been  possible,  would  have  meant  a  terrible  intensi- 
fication of  unfitness — two  bitters  in-oae  dish. 

"Oh,  but  there  can't  be  anything  in  it!"  she  said,  with 
nervous  lightness.  "Our  family  have  been  unlucky  of 
late  years  in  choosing  mates — that's  all." 

And  then  they  tried  to  persuade  themselves  that  all 
that  had  happened  was  of  no  consequence,  and  that  they 
could  still  be  cousins  and  friends  and  warm  correspond- 
ents, and  have  happy,  genial  times  when  they  met,  even 


198  JUDE   THE   OBSCURE 

if  they  met  less  frequently  than  before.  Their  parting 
was  in  good  friendship,  and  yet  Jude's  last  look  into  her 
eyes  was  tinged  with  inquiry,  for  he  felt  that  he  did  not 
even  nqw  quite  know  her  mind. 


VII 

Tidings  from  Sue  a  day  or  two  after  passed  across  Jude 
like  a  withering  blast. 

Before  reading  the  letter  he  was  led  to  suspect  that  its 
contents  were  of  a  somewhat  serious  kind  by  catching 
sight  of  the  signature — which  was  in  her  full  name,  never 
used  in  her  correspondence  with  him  since  her  first  note  : 

"  My  dear  Jude, — I  have  something  to  tell  you  which  per- 
haps you  will  not  be  surprised  to  hear,  though  certainly  it  may 
strike  you  as  being  accelerated  (as  the  railway  companies  say  of 
their  trains).  Mr.  Phillotson  and  I  are  to  be  married  quite  soon 
— in  tliree  or  four  weeks.  We  had  intended,  as  you  know,  to 
wait  till  I  had  gone  through  my  course  of  training  and  obtained 
my  certificate,  so  as  to  assist  him,  if  necessary,  in  the  teaching. 
But  he  generously  says  he  does  not  see  any  object  in  waiting,  now 
I  am  not  at  the  Training-School.  It  is  so  good  of  him,  because 
the  awkwardness  of  my  situation  has  really  come  about  by  my 
fault  in  getting  expelled. 

"  Wish  me  joy.  Remember  I  say  you  are  to,  and  you  mustn't 
refuse. — Your  affectionate  cousin, 

"Susanna  Florence  Mary  Bridehead." 


Jude  staggered  under  the  news ;  could  eat  no  break- 
fast ;  and  kept  on  drinking  tea  because  his  mouth  was 
so  dry.  Then  presently  he  went  back  to  his  work,  and 
laughed  the  usual  bitter  laugh  of  a  man  so  confronted. 
Everything  seemed  turning  to  satire.  And  yet,  what 
could  the  poor  girl  do  .'*  he  asked  himself,  and  felt  worse 
than  shedding  tears. 


200  JUDE   THE   OBSCURE 

"Oh,  Susanna  Florence  Mary!"  he  said,  as  he  worked. 
"  You  don't  know  what  marriage  means  !" 

Could  it  be  possible  that  his  announcement  of  his  own 
marriage  had  pricked  her  on  to  this,  just  as  his  visit  to 
iier  when  in  liquor  may  have  pricked  her  on  to  her  en- 
gagement ?  To  be  sure,  there  seemed  to  exist  these  other 
and  sufficient  reasons,  practical  and  social,  for  her  deci- 
sion; but  Sue  was  not  a  very  practical  or  calculating  per- 
son ;  and  he  was  compelled  to  think  that  a  pique  at  having 
his  secret  sprung  upon  her  had  moved  her  to  give  way  to 
Phillotson's  probable  representations,  that  the  best  course 
to  prove  how  unfounded  were  the  suspicions  of  the  school 
authorities  would  be  to  marry  him  off-hand,  as  in  fulfil- 
ment of  an  ordinary  engagement.  Sue  had,  in  fact,  been 
placed  in  an  awkward  corner.     Poor  Sue  ! 

He  determined  to  play  the  Spartan  ;  to  make  the  best 
of  it,  and  support  her;  but  he  could  not  write  the  re- 
quested good  wishes  for  a  day  or  two.  Meanwhile  there 
came  another  note  from  his  impatient  little  dear : 

"  Jude,  will  you  give  me  away  ?  I  have  nobody  else  who  could 
do  it  so  conveniently  as  you,  being  tlie  only  married  relation  I 
have  here  on  the  spot,  even  if  my  father  were  friendly  enough  to 
be  willing,  which  he  isn't.  I  hope  you  won't  think  it  a  trouble  ? 
I  have  been  looking  at  the  marriage  service  in  the  Prayer-book, 
and  it  seems  to  me  very  humiliating  that  a  giver-away  should  be 
required  at  all.  According  to  the  ceremony  as  there  printed,  my 
bridegroom  chooses  me  of  his  own  will  and  pleasure  ;  but  I  don't 
choose  him.  Somebody  gives  me  to  him,  like  a  she-ass  or  she- 
goat,  or  any  other  domestic  animal.  Bless  your  exalted  views  of 
woman,  O  Churchman  !  But  I  forget ;  I  am  no  longer  privileged 
to  tease  you. — Ever, 

"  Susanna  Florenck  Mary  Bridehead." 

Jude  screwed  himself  up  to  heroic  key,  and  replied  : 

"  My  dear  Sue,  — Of  course  I  wish  you  joy  !  And  also,  of 
course,  I  will  give  you  away.     What  I  suggest  is  that,  as  you  have 


AT    MELCHESTER  20I 

no  house  of  your  own,  you  do  not  marry  from  your  school  friend's, 
hut  from  mine.  It  would  be  more  proper,  I  think,  since  I  am, 
as  you  say,  the  person  nearest  related  to  you  in  this  part  of  the 
world. 

"  I  don't  see  why  you  sign  your  letter  in  such  a  new  and  terribly 
formal  way?  Surely  you  care  a  bit  about  me  still! — Ever  your 
affectionate,  Jude." 

What  had  jarred  on  him  even  more  than  the  signature 
was  a  little  sting  he  had  been  silent  on — the  phrase  "  mar- 
ried relation."  What  an  idiot  it  made  him  seem  as  her 
lover!  If  Sue  had  written  that  in  satire,  he  could  hardly 
forgive  her  ;  if  in  suffering — ah,  that  was  another  thing  I   ( 

His  offer  of  his  lodging  must  have  commended  itself 
to  Phillotson  at  any  rate,  for  the  school-master  sent  him 
a  line  of  warm  thanks,  accepting  the  convenience.  Sue 
also  thanked  him.  Jude  immediately  moved  into  more 
commodious  quarters,  as  much  to  escape  the  espionage 
of  the  suspicious  landlady,  who  had  been  one  cause  of 
Sue's  unpleasant  experience,  as  for  the  sake  of  room. 

Then  Sue  wrote  to  tell  him  the  day  fixed  for  the  wed- 
ding; and  Jude  decided,  after  inquiry,  that  she  should 
come  into  residence  on  the  following  Saturday,  which 
would  allow  of  a  ten  days'  stay  in  the  city  prior  to  the- 
ceremony,  sufficiently  representing  a  nominal  residence 
of  fifteen. 

She  arrived  by  the  ten-o'clock  train  on  the  day  afore- 
said, Jude  not  going  to  meet  her  at  the  station,  by  her 
special  request,  that  he  should  not  lose  a  morning's  work 
and  pay,  she  said  (if  this  were  her  true  reason).  But  so 
well  by  this  time  did  he  know  Sue  that  the  remembrance 
of  their  mutual  sensitiveness  at  emotional  crises  might, 
he  thought,  have  weighed  with  her  in  this.  When  he 
came  home  to  dinner  she  had  taken  possession  of  her 
apartment. 

She  lived  in  the  same  house  with  him,  but  on  a  differ- 
ent floor,  and  they  saw  each  other  little,  an  occasional 


202  JUDE  THE   OBSCURE 

supper  being  the  only  meal  they  took  together,  when 
Sue's  manner  was  something  like  that  of  a  scared  child. 
What  she  felt  he  did  not  know ;  their  conversation  was 
mechanical,  though  she  did  not  look  pale  or  ill.  Phillot- 
son  came  frequently,  but  mostly  when  Jude  was  absent. 
On  the  morning  of  the  wedding,  when  Jude  had  given 
himself  a  holiday,  Sue  and  her  cousin  had  breakfast  to- 
gether for  the  first  and  last  time  during  this  curious 
interval,  in  his  room — the  parlor  —  which  he  had  hired 
for  the  period  of  Sue's  residence.  Seeing,  as  women  do, 
how  helpless  he  was  in  making  the  place  comfortable, 
she  bustled  about. 

"  What's  the  matter,  Jude  .'"  she  said,  suddenly. 

He  was  leaning  with  his  elbows  on  the  table  and  his 
chin  in  his  hands,  looking  into  a  futurity  which  seemed 
to  be  sketched  out  on  the  table-cloth. 

"  Oh — nothing  !" 

"You  are  'father,' you  know.  That's  what  they  call 
the  man  who  gives  you  away." 

Jude  could  have  said  "  Phillotson's  age  entitles  him  to 
be  called  that !"  But  he  would  not  annoy  her  by  such  a 
cheap  retort. 

She  talked  incessantly,  as  if  she  dreaded  his  indulgence 
in  reflection,  and  before  the  meal  was  over  both  he  and 
she  wished  they  had  not  put  such  confidence  in  their 
new  view  of  things,  and  had  taken  breakfast  apart.  What 
oppressed  Jude  was  the  thought  that,  having  done  a 
wrong  thing  of  this  sort  himself,  he  was  aiding  and  abet- 
ting the  woman  he  loved  in  doing-a  likewrong  thing, 
instead  of  imploring  and  warning  her_against~TF.  It  was 
on  his  tongue  to  say,  "  You  have  quite  made  up  your 
mind  ?" 

After  breakfast  they  went  out  on  an  errand  together, 
moved  by  a  mutual  thought  that  it  was  the  last  oppor- 
tunity they  would  have  of  indulging  in  unceremonious 
companionship.  By  the  irony  of  fate,  and  the  curious 
trick  in  Sue's  nature  of  tempting  Providence  at  critical 


■y    '  AT   MELCHESTER  203 

times,  she  took  his  arm  as  they  walked  through  the 
muddy  street — a  thing  she  had  never  done  before  in  her 
life  —  and  on  turning  the  corner  they  found  themselves 
close  to  a  gray  Perpendicular  church,  with  a  low-pitched 
roof — the  church  of  St.  Thomas. 

"  That's  the  church,"  said  Jude. 

"  Where  I  am  going  to  be  married  ?" 

"Yes." 

"  Indeed  !"  she  exclaimed,  with  curiosity.  "  How  I 
should  like  to  go  in  and  see  what  the  spot  is  like  where  I 
am  so  soon  to  kneel  and  do  it." 

Again  he  said  to  himself,  "  She  does  not  realize  what 
marriage  means !" 

He  passively  acquiesced  in  her  wish  to  go  in,  and  they 
entered  by  the  western  door.  The  only  person  inside  the 
gloomy  building  was  a  char-woman  cleaning.  Sue  still 
held  Jude's  arm,  almost  as  if  she  loved  him.  Cruelly 
sweet,  indeed,  she  had  been  to  him  that  morning ;  but  his 
thoughts  of  a  penance  in  store  for  her  were  tempered  by 
an  ache : 

"...  I  can  find  no  way 
How  a  blow  should  fall,  such  as  falls  on  men. 
Nor  prove  too  much  for  your  womanhood  I" 

They  strolled  undemonstratively  up  the  nave  towards 
the  altar  railing,  which  they  surveyed  in  silence,  turning 
then  and  walking  down  the  nave  again,  her  hand  still  on 
his  arm,  precisely  like  a  couple  just  married.  The  too 
suggestive  incident,  entirely  of  her  making,  nearly  broke 
down  Jude. 

"  I  like  to  do  things  like  this."  she  said,  in  the  delicate 
voice  of  an  epicure  in  emotions,  which  left  no  doubt  that 
she  spoke  the  truth. 

"  I  know  you  do  !"  said  Jude. 

"  They  are  interesting,  because  they  have  probably  nev- 
er been  done  before.  I  shall  walk  down  the  church  like 
this  with  my  husband  in  about  two  hours,  sha'n't  I !" 


204  JUDE  THE  OBSCURE 

"  No  doubt  you  will !" 

"  Was  it  like  this  when  you  were  married  ?" 

"  Good  God,  Sue — don't  be  so  awfully  merciless!  .  .  . 
There,  dear  one,  I  didn't  mean  it !" 

"Ah  — you  are  vexed  !"  she  said,  regretfully,  as  she 
blinked  away  an  access  of  eye  moisture.  "  And  I  prom- 
ised never  to  vex  you  !  .  .  .  I  suppose  I  ought  not  to  have 
asked  you  to  bring  me  in  here.  Oh,  I  oughtn't !  I  see 
it  now.  My  curiosity  to  hunt  up  a  new  sensation  always 
leads  me  into  these  scrapes.  Forgive  me  !  .  .  .  You  will, 
won't  you,  Jude  ?" 

The  appeal  was  so  remorseful  that  Jude's  eyes  were 
even  wetter  than  hers  as  he  pressed  her  hand  for  Yes. 

"  Now  we'll  hurry  away,  and  I  won't  do  it  any  more !" 
she  continued,  humbly ;  and  they  came  out  of  the  build- 
ing. Sue  intending  to  go  on  to  the  station  to  meet  Phil- 
lotson.  But  the  first  person  they  encountered  on  enter- 
ing the  main  street  was  the  school-master  himself,  whose 
train  had  arrived  sooner  than  Sue  expected.  There  was 
nothing  really  to  demur  to  in  her  leaning  on  Jude's  arm  ; 
but  she  withdrew  her  hand,  and  Jude  thought  that  Phil- 
lotson  had  looked  surprised. 

"  We  have  been  doing  such  a  funny  thing !"  said  she, 
smiling  candidly.  "  We've  been  to  the  church,  rehears- 
ing, as  it  were.     Haven't  we,  Jude  ?" 

"  How  ?"  said  Phillotson,  curiously. 

Jude  inwardly  deplored  what  he  thought  to  be  un- 
necessary frankness ;  but  she  had  gone  too  far  not  to 
explain  all,  which  she  accordingly  did,  telling  him  how 
they  had  marched  up  to  the  altar. 

Seeing  how  puzzled  Phillotson  seemed,  Jude  said,  as 
cheerfully  as  he.  could,  "  I  am  going  to  buy  her  another 
little  present.    Will  you  both  come  to  the  shop  with  me  ?" 

"  No,"  said  Sue, "  I'll  go  on  to  the  house  with  him." 
And  requesting  her  lover  not  to  be  a  long  time,  she  de- 
parted with  the  school-master. 

Jude  soon  joined  them  at  his  rooms,  and  shortly  after 


l^  AT    MELCHESTER  205 

they  prepared  for  the  ceremony.  Phillotson's  hair  was 
brushed  to  a  painful  extent,  and  his  shirt-collar  appeared 
stiffer  than  it  had  been  for  the  previous  twenty  years. 
Beyond  this  he  looked  dignified  and  thoughtful,  and  al- 
together a  man  of  whom  it  was  not  unsafe  to  predicate 
that  he  would  make  a  kind  and  considerate  husband. 
That  he  adored  Sue  was  obvious ;  and  she  could  almost 
be  seen  to  feel  that  she  was  undeserving  his  adoration. 

Although  the  distance  was  so  short,  he  had  hired  a  fly 
from  the  Red  Lion,  and  six  or  seven  women  and  children 
had  gathered  by  the  door  when  they  came  out.  The 
school-master  and  Sue  were  unknown,  though  Jude  was 
getting  to  be  recognized  as  a  citizen  ;  and  the  couple 
were  judged  to  be  some  relations  of  his  from  a  distance, 
nobody  supposing  Sue  to  have  been  a  recent  pupil  at  the 
Train  ing-School. 

In  the  carriage  Jude  took  from  his  pocket  his  extra 
little  wedding- present,  which  turned  out  to  be  two  or 
three  yards  of  white  tulle,  which  he  threw  over  her,  bon- 
net and  all,  as  a  veil. 

"  It  looks  so  odd  over  a  bonnet,"  she  said.  "  I'll  take 
the  bonnet  off." 

"  Oh  no — let  it  stay,"  said  Phillotson.   And  she  obeyed. 

When  they  had  passed  up  the  church,  and  were  stand- 
ing in  their  places,  Jude  found  that  the  antecedent  visit 
had  certainly  taken  off  the  edge  of  this  performance,  but 
by  the  time  they  were  half-way  on  with  the  service  he 
wished  from  his  heart  that  he  had  not  undertaken  the 
business  of  giving  her  away.  How  could  Sue  have  had 
the  temerity  to  ask  him  to  do  it — a  cruelty  possibly  to 
herself  as  well  as  to  him  ?  Women  were  different  from 
men  in  such  matters.  Was  it  that  they  were,  instead  of 
more  sensitive,  as  reputed,  more  callous,  and  less  ro- 
mantic ;  or  were  they  more  heroic'  Or  was  Sue  simply 
so  perverse  that  she  wilfully,  gave  herself  and  him  pain 
for  the  odd  and  mournful  luxury  of  practising  long- 
suffering  in  her  own  person,  and  of  being  touched  with 


2o6  JUDE  THE  OBSCURE 

tender  pity  for  him  at  having  made  him  practise  it?  He 
could  perceive  that  her  face  was  nervously  set,  and  when 
they  reached  the  trying  ordeal  of  Jude  giving  her  to 
Phillotson  she  could  hardly  command  herself;  rather, 
however,  as  it  seemed,  from  her  knowledge  of  what  her 
cousin  must  feel,  whom  she  need  not  have  had  there  at 
all,  than  from  self-consideration.  Possibly  she  would  go 
on  inflicting  such  pains  again  and  again,  and  grieving 
for  the  sufferer  again  and  again,  in  all  her  colossal  in- 
consistency. 

Phillotson  seemed  not  to  notice,  to  be  surrounded  by 
a  mist  which  prevented  his  seeing  the  emotions  of  others. 
As  soon  as  they  had  signed  their  names  and  come  away, 
and  the  suspense  was  over,  Jude  felt  relieved. 

The  meal  at  his  lodging  was  a  very  simple  afTair,  and 
at  two  o'clock  they  went  off.  In  crossing  the  pavement 
to  the  fly  she  looked  back,  and  there  was  a  frightened 
light  in  her  eyes.  Could  it  be  that  Sue  had  acted  with 
such  unusual  foolishness  as  to  plunge  into  she  knew  not 
what  for  the  sake  of  asserting  her  independence  of  him, 
of  retaliating  on  him  for  his  secrecy  ?  Perhaps  Sue  was 
thus  venturesome  with  men  because  she  was  childishly 
io-norant  of  that  side  of  their  natures  which  wore  out 
women's  hearts  and  lives. 

When  her  foot  was  on  the  carriage  -  step  she  turned 
round,  saying  that  she  had  forgotten  something.  Jude 
and  the  landlady  offered  to  get  it. 

"  No,"  she  said,  running  back.  "  It  is  my  handkerchief. 
I  know  where  I  left  it." 

Jude  followed  her  back.  She  had  found  it,  and  came 
holding  it  in  her  hand.  She  looked  into  his  eyes  with 
her  own  tearful  ones,  and  her  lips  suddenly  parted  as  if 
she  were  going  to  say  something.  But  she  went  on  ;  and 
whatever  she  had  meant  to  say  remained  unspoken. 


K 
P) 

o 

o 

B 


•< 

PI 


H 
K 

K 
M 

O 
:^ 

•2, 

> 
C 

r 

o 
z 

m 


VIII 

JUDE  wondered  if  she  had  really  left  her  handkerchief 
behind,  or  whether  it  were  that  she  had  miserably  wished    ^^ 
to  tell  him  of  a  love  that  at  the  last  moment  she  could  ^     iy'' 
not  bring  herself  to  express. 

He  could  not  stay  in  his  silent  lodging  when  they  were 
gone,  and  fearing  that  he  might  be  tempted  to  drown  his 
misery  in  alcohol  he  went  up- stairs,  changed  his  dark 
clothes  for  his  white,  his  thin  boots  for  his  thick,  and 
proceeded  to  his  customary  work  for  the  afternoon. 

But  in  the  Cathedral  he  seemed  to  hear  a  voice  behind 
him,  and  to  be  possessed  with  an  idea  that  she  would 
come  back.  She  could  not  possibly  go  home  with  Phil- 
lotson,  he  fancied.  The  feeling  grew  and  stirred.  The 
moment  that  the  clock  struck  the  last  of  his  working 
hours  he  threw  down  his  tools  and  rushed  homeward. 
"  Has  anybody  been  for  me?"  he  asked. 

Nobody  had  been  there. 

As  he  could  claim  the  down -stairs  sitting-room  till 
twelve  o'clock  that  night  he  sat  in  it  all  the  evening ; 
and  even  when  the  clock  had  struck  eleven,  and  the 
family  had  retired,  he  could  not  shake  ofif  the  feeling  that 
she  would  come  back  and  sleep  in  the  little  room  adjoin- 
ing his  own,  in  which  she  had  slept  so  many  previous 
days.  Her  actions  were  always  unpredicable  ;  why  should 
she  not  come  ?  Gladly  would  he  have  compounded  for 
the  denial  of  her  as  a  sweetheart  and  wife  by  having  her 
live  thus  as  a  fellow-lodger  and  friend,  even  on  the  most 
distant  terms.  His  supper  still  remained  spread  ;  and  go- 
ing to  the  front  door,  and  softly  setting  it  open,  he  re- 


2o8  JUDE  THE  OBSCURE 

turned  to  the  room  and  sat  as  watchers  sit  on  Old-Mid- 
summer eves,  expecting  the  phantom  of  the  Beloved. 
But  she  did  not  come. 

Having  indulged  in  this  wild  hope,  he  went  up-stairs 
and  looked  out  of  the  window,  and  pictured  her  through 
the  evening  journey  to  London,  whither  she  and  Phillot- 
son  had  gone  for  their  holiday;  their  rattling  along 
through  the  damp  night  to  their  hotel,  under  the  same 
sky  of  ribbed  cloud  as  that  he  beheld,  through  which  the 
moon  showed  its  position  rather  than  its  shape,  and  one 
or  two  of  the  larger  stars  made  themselves  visible  as 
faint  nebul?e  only.  It  was  a  new  beginning  of  Sue's  his- 
tory. He  projected  his  mind  into  the  future,  and  saw 
her  with  children  more  or  less  in  her  own  likeness  around 
her.  But  the  consolation  of  regarding  them  as  a  con- 
tinuation of  her  identity  was  denied  to  him,  as  to  all  such 
dreamers,  by  the  wilfulness  of  Nature  in  not  allowing  issue 
from  one  parent  alone.  Every  desired  renewal  of  an  ex- 
istence is  debased  by  being  half  alloy.  "  If  at  the  estrange- 
ment or  death  of  my  lost  love,  I  could  go  and  see  her 
child — hers  solely — there  would  be  comfort  in  it !"  said 
Jude.  And  then  he  again  uneasily  saw,  as  he  had  latter- 
ly seen  with  more  and  more  frequency,  the  scorn  of 
Nature  for  man's  finer  emotions,  and  her  lack  of  interest 
in  his  aspirations. 

The  oppressive  strength  of  his  affection  for  Sue  showed 
itself  on  the  morrow  and  following  days  yet  more  clearly. 
He  could  no  longer  endure  the  light  of  the  Melchester 
lamps  ;  the  sunshine  was  as  drab  paint ;  and  the  blue  sky 
as  zinc.  Then  he  received  news  that  his  old  aunt  was 
dangerously  ill  at  Marygreen,  which  intelligence  almost 
coincided  with  a  letter  from  his  former  employer  at 
Christminster,  who  offered  him  permanent  work  of  a 
good  class  if  he  would  come  back.  The  letters  were  al- 
most a  relief  to  him.  He  started  to  visit  Aunt  Drusilla, 
and  resolved  to  go  onward  to  Christminster  to  see  what 
worth  there  might  be  in  the  builder's  offer. 


AT   MELCHESTER 


209 


Jude  found  his  aunt  even  worse  than  the  communica- 
tion from  the  Widow  EdHn  had  led  him  to  expect.  There 
was  every  possibihty  of  her  lingering  on  for  weeks  or 
months,  though  little  likelihood.  He  wrote  to  Sue,  in- 
forming her  of  the  state  of  her  aunt,  and  suggesting  that 
she  might  like  to  see  her  aged  relative  alive.  He  would 
meet  her  at  Alfredston  Road  the  following  evening,  Mon- 
day, on  his  way  hack  from  Christminster,  if  she  could 
come  by  the  up-train  which  crossed  his  down-train  at  that 
station.  Next  morning,  accordingly,  he  went  on  to 
Christminster,  intending  to  return  to  Alfredston  soon 
enough  to  keep  the  suggested  appointment  with  Sue. 

The  city  of  learning  wore  an  estranged  look,  and  he 
liad  lost  all  feeling  for  its  associations.  Yet  as  the  sun 
made  vivid  lights  and  shades  of  the  mullioned  architect- 
ure of  the  facades,  and  drew  patterns  of  the  crinkled 
battlements  on  the  young  turf  of  the  quadrangles,  Jude 
thought  he  had  never  seen  the  place  look  more  beauti- 
ful. He  came  to  the  street  in  which  he  had  first  beheld 
Sue.  The  chair  she  had  occupied  when,  leaning  over  her 
ecclesiastical  scrolls,  a  hog- hair  brush  in  her  hand,  her 
girlish  figure  had  arrested  the  gaze  of  his  inquiring  eyes, 
stood  precisely  in  its  former  spot,  empty.  It  was  as  if 
she  were  dead,  and  nobody  had  been  found  capable  of 
succeeding  her  in  that  artistic  pursuit.  Hers  was  now 
the  City  phantom,  while  those  of  the  intellectual  and 
devotional  worthies  who  had  once  moved  him  to  emotion 
were  no  longer  able  to  assert  their  presence  there. 

However,  here  lie  was:  and  in  fulfilment  of  his  inten- 
tion he  went  on  to  his  former  lodging  in  "  Beersheba." 
near  the  ceremonial  church  of  St.  Silas.  The  old  land- 
lady who  opened  the  door  seemed  glad  to  see  him  again, 
and,  bringing  some  lunch,  informed  him  that  the  builder 
who  had  employed  him  had  called  to  inquire  his  ad- 
dress. 

Jude  went  on  to  the  stone-yard  where  he  had  worked. 
But  the  old  sheds  and  bankers  were  distasteful  to  him  ; 
14 


2IO  JUDE  THE  OBSCURE 

he  felt  it  impossible  to  engage  himself  to  return  and  stay- 
in  this  place  of  vanished  dreams.  He  longed  for  the  hour 
of  the  homeward  train  to  Alfredston,  where  he  might 
probably  meet  Sue. 

Then,  for  one  ghastly  half-hour  of  depression  caused  by 
these  scenes,  there  returned  upon  him  that  feeling  which 
had  been  his  undoing  more  than  once— that  he  was  not 
worth  the  trouble  of  being  taken  care  of  either  by  him- 
self or  others;  and  during  this  half-hour  he  met  Tinker 
Taylor,  the  bankrupt  ecclesiastical  iron-monger,  at  Four- 
ways,  who  proposed  that  they  should  adjourn  to  a  bar 
and  drink  together.  They  walked  along  the  street  till 
they  stood  before  one  of  the  great  palpitating  centres  of 
Christminster  life,  the  inn  wherein  he  formerly  had  re- 
sponded to  the  challenge  to  rehearse  the  Creed  in  Latin 
— now  a  popular  tavern  with  a  spacious  and  inviting  en- 
trance, which  gave  admittance  to  a  bar  that  had  been  en- 
tirely renovated  and  refitted  in  modern  style  since  Jude's 
residence  here. 

Tinker  Taylor  drank  off  his  glass  and  departed,  saying 
it  was  too  stylish  a  place  now  for  him  to  feel  at  home  in, 
unless  he  was  drunker  than  he  had  money  to  be  just  then. 
}ude  was  longer  finishing  his,  and  stood  abstractedlj'' 
silent  in  the  almost  empty  place.  The  bar  had  been 
gutted  and  newly  arranged  throughout,  mahogany  fix- 
tures having  taken  the  place  of  the  old  painted  ones, 
while  at  the  back  of  the  standing-space  there  were  stuffed 
sofa-benches.  The  room  was  divided  into  compartments 
in  the  approved  manner,  between  which  were  screens  of 
ground-glass  in  mahogany  framing,  to  prevent  topers  in  one 
compartment  being  put  to  the  blush  by  the  recognitions 
of  those  in  the  next.  On  the  inside  of  the  counter  two 
barmaids  leaned  over  the  white-handled  beer-engines,  and 
the  row  of  little  silvered  taps  inside,  dripping  into  a  pew- 
ter trough. 

Feeling  tired,  and  having  nothing  more  to  do  till  the 
train   left,  Jude  sat  down  on  one  of  the  sofas.     At  the 


_-  AT    MELCH  ESTER  211 

back  of  the  barmaids  rose  bevel-edged  mirrors,  with  glass 
shelves  running  along  their  front,  on  which  stood  pre- 
cious liquids  that  Jude  did  not  know  the  name  of,  in  bot- 
tles of  topaz,  sapphire,  ruby,  and  amethyst.  The  moment 
was  enlivened  by  the  entrance  of  some  customers  into 
the  next  compartment,  and  the  starting  of  the  mechani- 
cal tell-tale  of  moneys  received,  which  emitted  a  ting-ting 
every  time  a  coin  was  put  in. 

The  barmaid  attending  to  this  compartment  was  invis- 
ible to  Jude's  direct  glance,  though  a  reflection  of  her 
back  in  the  glass  behind  her  was  occasionally  caught  by 
his  eyes.  He  had  only  observed  this  listlessly,  when  she 
turned  her  face  for  a  moment  to  the  glass  to  set  her  hair 
tidy.  Then  he  was  amazed  to  discover  that  the  face  was 
Arabella's. 

If  she  had  come  on  to  his  compartment  she  would  have 
seen  him.  But  she  did  not,  this  being  presided  over  by 
the  maiden  on  the  other  side.  Abby  was  in  a  black 
gown,  with  white  linen  cuffs  and  a  broad  white  collar,  and 
her  figure,  more  developed  than  formerly,  was  accentuated 
by  a  bunch  of  daffodils  that  she  wore  on  her  left  bosom. 
In  the  compartment  she  served  stood  an  electro-plated 
fountain  of  water  over  a  spirit-lamp,  whose  blue  flame 
sent  a  steam  from  the  top.  all  this  being  visible  to  him 
only  in  the  mirror  behind  her;  which  also  reflected  the 
faces  of  the  men  she  was  attending  to— one  of  them,  a 
handsome,  dissipated  young  fellow,  possibly  an  under- 
graduate, who  had  been  relating  to  her  an  experience  of 
some  humorous  sort. 

"Oh,  Mr.  Cockman,  now!  How  can  you  tell  such  a 
tale  to  mc  in  my  innocence?"  she  cried,  gayly.  "Mr. 
Cockman,  what  do  you  use  to  make  your  mustache  curl 
so  beautiful?"  As  the  young  man  was  clean-shaven,  the 
retort  provoked  a  laugh  at  his  expense. 

"Come!"  said  he,  "I'll  have  a  Cura(;oa;  and  a  light, 
please." 

She  served  the  liqueur  from  one  ot  the  lovely  bottles, 


212  JUDE  THE  OBSCURE 

and,  striking  a  match,  held  it  to  his  cigarette  while  he 
whiffed. 

"  Well,  have  you  heard  from  your  husband  lately,  my 
dear  ?"  he  asked. 

"  Not  a  sound,"  said  she. 

"  Where  is  he  ?" 

"I  left  him  in  Australia;  and  I  suppose  he's  there  still." 

Jude's  eyes  grew  rounder. 

"  What  made  you  part  from  him  ?'" 

"  Don't  you  ask  questions,  and  you  won't  hear  lies." 

"  Come,  then,  give  me  my  change,  which  you've  been 
keeping  from  me  for  the  last  quarter  of  an  hour,  and  I'll 
romantically  vanish  up  the  street  of  this  picturesque  city." 

She  handed  the  change  over  the  counter,  in  taking 
which  he  caught  her  fingers  and  held  them.  There  was 
a  slight  struggle  and  titter,  and  he  bade  her  good-bye 
and  left. 

Jude  had  looked  on  with  the  eye  of  a  dazed  philoso- 
pher. It  was  extraordinary  how  far  removed  from  his 
life  Arabella  now  seemed  to  be.  He  could  not  realize 
their  nominal  closeness.  And,  this  being  the  case,  in  his 
present  frame  of  mind  he  was  indifferent  to  the  fact  that 
Arabella  was  his  wife  indeed. 

The  compartment  that  she  served  emptied  itself  of  vis- 
itors, and  after  a  brief  thought  he  entered  it,  and  went 
forward  to  the  counter.  Arabella  did  not  recognize  him 
for  a  moment.  Then  their  glances  met.  She  started ; 
till  a  humorous  impudence  sparkled  in  her  eyes,  and  she 
spoke. 

"Well,  I'm  blest!  I  thought  you  were  underground 
years  ago  !" 

"Oh!" 

"  I  never  heard  anything  of  you,  or  I  don't  know  that 
I  should  have  come  here.  But  never  mind  I  What  shall 
I  treat  you  to  this  afternoon?  A  Scotch  and  soda.' 
Come,  anything  that  the  house  will  afford,  for  old  ac- 
quaintance' sake !" 


i^.  AT   MELCHESTER  213 

"  Thanks,  Arabella,"  said  Jude,  without  a  smile.  "  But  I 
don't  want  anything  more  than  I've  had."  The  fact  was 
that  her  unexpected  presence  there  had  destroyed  at  a 
.stroke  his  momentary  taste  for  strong  liquor  as  complete- 
ly as  if  it  had  whisked  him  back  to  his  milk-fed  infancy. 

"That's  a  pity,  now  you  could  get  it  for  nothing." 

"  How  long  have  you  been  here.-*" 

"About  six  weeks.  I  returned  from  Sydney  three 
months  ago.     I  always  liked  this  business,  you  know." 

"  I  wonder  you  came  to  this  place  !" 

"  Well,  as  I  say,  I  thought  you  were  gone  to  glory,  and 
being  in  London  I  saw  the  situation  in  an  advertisement. 
Nobody  was  likely  to  know  me  here,  even  if  I  had  mind- 
ed, for  I  was  never  in  Christminster  in  my  growing-up." 

"  Why  did  you  return  from  Australia  ?" 

"  Oh,  I  had  my  reasons.  .  .  .  Then  you  are  not  a  Don 
yet  ?'• 

"No." 

"  Not  even  a  Reverend  ?" 

"  No." 

"  Nor  so  much  as  a  Rather  Reverend  dissenting  gentle- 
man }" 

"  I  am  as  I  was." 

"True — you  look  so."  She  idly  allowed  her  fingers  to 
rest  on  the  pull  of  the  beer-engine  as  she  inspected  him 
critically.  He  observed  that  her  hands  were  smaller  and 
whiter  than  when  he  had  lived  with  her,  and  that  on  the 
hand  which  pulled  the  engine  she  wore  an  ornamental 
ring  set  with  what  seemed  to  be  a  real  sapphire — which 
it  was,  indeed,  and  was  much  admired  as  such  by  the 
young  men  who  frequented  the  bar. 

"  So  you  pass  as  married,"  he  continued. 

"Yes.  I  thought  it  might  be  awkward  if  I  called  my- 
self a  widow,  as  I  should  have  liked." 

"True.     I  am  known  here  a  little." 

"  I  didn't  mean  on  that  account — for,  as  I  said,  I  didn't 
expect  you.     It  was  for  other  reasons." 


214  JUDE  THE  OBSCURE 

"  What  were  they  ?" 

"I  don't  care  to  go  into  them,"  she  replied,  evasively. 
"  I  make  a  very  good  living,  and  1  don't  know  that  I  want 
your  company." 

Here  a  chappie  with  no  chin,  and  a  mustache  like  a 
lady's  eyebrow,  came  and  asked  for  a  curiously  com- 
pounded drink,  and  Arabella  was  obliged  to  go  and  at- 
tend to  him.  "  We  can't  talk  here,"  she  said,  stepping 
back  a  moment.  "Can't  you  wait  till  nine?  Say  yes, 
and  don't  be  a  fool.  I  can  get  off  duty  two  hours  sooner 
than  usual,  if  I  ask.  I  am  not  living  in  the  house  at 
present." 

He  reflected,  and  said,  gloomily,  "I'll  come  back.  I 
suppose  we'd  better  arrange  something." 

"  Oh,  bother  arranging  !  I'm  not  going  to  arrange  any- 
thing !" 

"  But  I  must  know  a  thing  or  two  ;  and,  as  you  say,  we 
can't  talk  here.     Very  well,  I'll  call  for  you." 

Depositing  his  unemptied  glass,  he  went  out  and  walked 
up  and  down  the  street.  Here  was  a  rude  flounce  into 
the  pellucid  sentimentality  of  his  sad  attachment  to  Sue. 
Though  Arabella's  word  was  absolutely  untrustworthy, 
he  thought  there  might  be  some  truth  in  her  implication 
that  she  had  not  wished  to  disturb  him,  and  had  really 
supposed  him  dead.  However,  there  was  only  one  thing 
now  to  be  done,  and  that  was  to  play  a  straightforward 
part,  the  law  being  the  law,  and  the  woman,  between 
whom  and  himself  there  was  no  more  unity  than  between 
east  and  west,  being  in  the  eye  of  the  Church  one  person 
with  him. 

Having  to  meet  Arabella  here,  it  was  impossible  to 
meet  Sue  at  Alfredston  as  he  had  promised.  At  every 
thought  of  this  a  pang  had  gone  through  him;  but  the 
conjuncture  could  not  be  helped.  Arabella  was  perhaps 
an  intended  intervention  to  punish  him  for  his  unauthor- 
ized love.  Passing  the  evening,  therefore,  in  a  desultory 
waiting  about  the  town  wherein  he  avoided  the  precincts 


J:  AT    MELCHESTER  21$ 

of  every  Cloister  and  Hall,  because  he  could  not  bear  to 
behold  them,  he  repaired  to  the  tavern  bar  while  the 
hundred  and  one  strokes  were  resounding  from  the  Great 
Bell  of  Cardinal  College,  a  coincidence  which  seemed  to 
him  gratuitous  irony.  The  inn  was  now  brilliantly  lighted 
up,  and  the  scene  was  altogether  more  brisk  and  gay. 
The  faces  of  the  barmaidens  had  risen  in  color,  each  having 
a  pink  flush  on  her  cheek  ;  their  manners  were  still  more 
vivacious  than  before  —  more  abandoned,  more  excited, 
more  sensuous,  and  they  expressed  their  sentiments  and 
desires  less  euphemistically,  laughing  in  a  lackadaisical 
tone,  without  reserve. 

The  bar  had  been  crowded  with  men  of  all  sorts  during 
the  previous  hour,  and  he  had  heard  from  without  the 
hubbub  of  their  voices  ;  but  the  customers  were  fewer  just 
now.  He  nodded  to  Arabella,  and  told  her  that  she 
would  find  him  outside  the  door  when  she  came  away. 

"  But  you  must  have  something  with  me  first,"  she  said, 
with  great  good-humor.  "Just  an  early  night-cap;  I  al- 
ways do.  Then  you  can  go  out  and  wait  a  minute,  as  it 
is  best  we  should  not  be  seen  going  together."  She  drew 
a  couple  of  liqueur  glasses  of  brandy;  and  though  she 
had  evidently,  from  her  countenance,  already  taken  in 
enough  alcohol  either  by  drinking  or,  more  probably,  from 
the  atmosphere  she  had  breathed  for  so  many  hours,  she 
finished  hers  quickly.  He  also  drank  his,  and  went  out- 
side the  house. 

In  a  few  minutes  she  came,  in  a  thick  jacket  and  a  hat 
with  a  black  feather.  "  I  live  quite  near,"  she  said,  taking 
his  arm,  "and  can  let  myself  in  by  a  latch-key  at  any 
time.     What  arrangement  do  you  want  to  come  to.^" 

"  Oh — none  in  particular,"  he  answered,  thoroughly  sick 
and  tired,  his  thoughts  again  reverting  to  Alfredston,  and 
the  train  he  did  not  go  by;  the  probable  disappointment 
of  Sue  that  he  was  not  there  when  she  arrived,  and  the 
missed  pleasure  of  her  company  on  the  long  and  lonely 
climb  by  starlight  up  the  hills  to  Marygreen.     "  I  ought 


2l6  JUDE  THE   OBSCURE 

to  have  gone  back,  really  !  My  aunt  is  on  her  death-bed, 
I  fear." 

"  I'll  go  over  with  yon  to-morrow  morning.  I  think  I 
could  get  a  day  off." 

There  was  something  particularly  uncongenial  in  the 
idea  of  Arabella,  who  had  no  more  sympathy  than  a 
tigress  with  his  relations  or  him,  coming  to  the  bedside 
of  his  dying  aunt,  and  meeting  Sue.  Yet  he  said,  "  Of 
course,  if  you'd  like  to,  you  can." 

"  Well,  that  we'll  consider.  .  .  .  Now,  until  we  have  come 
to  some  agreement,  it  is  awkward  our  being  together  here 
— where  you  are  known,  and  I  am  getting  known,  though 
without  any  suspicion  that  I  have  anything  to  do  with 
you.  As  we  are  going  towards  the  station  suppose  we 
take  the  nine-forty  train  to  Aldbrickham  ?  We  shall  be 
there  in  little  more  than  half  an  hour,  and  nobody  will 
know  us  for  one  night,  and  we  shall  be  quite  free  to  act 
as  we  choose  till  we  have  made  up  our  minds  whether 
we'll  make  anything  public  or  not." 

"  As  you  like." 

"Then  wait  till  I  get  two  or  three  things.  This  is  my 
lodging.  Sometimes  when  late  I  sleep  at  the  hotel  where 
I  am  engaged,  so  nobody  will  think  anything  of  my  stay- 
ing out." 

She  speedily  returned,  and  they  went  on  to  the  railway, 
and  made  the  half-hour's  journey  to  Aldbrickham,  where 
they  entered  a  third-rate  inn  near  the  station  in  time  for 
a  late  supper. 


JU- 


IX 

On  the  morrow,  between  nine  and  half-past,  they  were 
journeying  back  to  Christminster,  the  only  two  occupants 
of  a  compartment  in  a  third-class  railway-carriage.  Hav- 
ing, like  Jude,  made  rather  a  hasty  toilet  to  catch  the 
train,  Arabella  looked  a  little  frows\',  and  her  face  was 
very  far  from  possessing  the  animation  which  had  char- 
acterized it  at  the  bar  the  night  before.  When  they 
came  out  of  the  station  she  found  that  she  still  had  half 
an  hour  to  spare  before  she  was  due  at  the  bar.  They 
walked  in  silence  a  little  way  out  of  the  town  in  the  direc- 
tion of  Alfredston.     Jude  looked  up  the  far  highway. 

"Ah  .  .  .  poor  feeble  me  I"  he  murmured  at  last. 

"What .•*"  said  she. 

"  This  is  the  very  road  by  which  I  came  into  Christ- 
minster years  ago  full  of  plans  !" 

"  Well,  whatever  the  road  is.  I  think  my  time  is  nearly 
up,  as  I  have  to  be  in  the  bar  by  eleven  o'clock.  And,  as 
I  said,  I  sha'n't  ask  for  the  day  to  go  with  you  to  see  your 
aunt.  So  perhaps  we  had  better  part  here.  I'd  sooner 
not  walk  up  Chief  Street  with  you,  since  we've  come  to 
no  conclusion  at  all." 

"  Very  well.  But  you  said  when  we  were  getting  up 
this  morning  that  you  had  something  you  wished  to  tell 
mc  before  I  left  ?" 

"So  I  had  —  two  things — one  in  particular.  But  you 
wouldn't  promise  to  keep  it  a  secret.  I'll  tell  you  now. 
if  you  promise.^  As  an  honest  woman,  I  wish  you  to 
know  it.  .  .  .  It  was  what  I  began  telling  you  in  the  night 
— about  that  gentleman  who  managed  the  Sydney  hotel." 


2l8  JUDE   THE   OBSCURE 

Arabella  spoke  somewhat  hurriedly  for  her.  "  You'll 
keep  it  close  ?" 

"Yes  —  yes — I  promise!"  said  Jude,  impatiently.  "Of 
course  I  don't  want  to  reveal  your  secrets." 

"Whenever  I  met  him  out  for  a  walk  he  used  to  say 
that  he  was  much  taken  with  my  looks,  and  he  kept 
pressing  me  to  marry  him.  1  never  thought  of  coming 
back  to  England  again  ;  and  being  out  there  in  Australia, 
with  no  home  of  my  own  after  leaving  my  father,  I  at 
last  agreed,  and  did." 

"  What — marry  him  ?" 

"Yes." 

"  Regularly — legally — in  church  ?" 

"Yes.  And  lived  with  him  till  shortly  before  I  left. 
It  was  stupid,  1  know;  but  I  did  I  There,  now,  I've  told 
you.  Don't  round  upon  me  !  He's  never  coming  back 
to  England,  poor  old  chap.  And  if  he  does,  he  won't  be 
likely  to  find  me." 

Jude  stood  pale  and  fixed. 

"Why  the  devil  didn't  you  tell  me  last  night.-*"  he 
said. 

"Well — I  didn't.  .  .  .  Won't  you  make  it  up  with  me, 
then .?" 

"  I  have  nothing  more  to  say !"  replied  Jude,  with  stern- 
ness. "  I  have  nothing  at  all  to  say  about  the — crime — 
you've  confessed  to  !" 

"Crime!  Pooh.  They  don't  think  much  of  such  as 
that  over  there  !  Lot's  of  'em  do  it.  .  .  .  Well,  if  you  take 
it  like  that  I  shall  go  back  to  him  !  He  was  very  fond  of 
me,  and  we  lived  honorable  enough,  and  as  respectable 
as  any  married  couple  in  the  Colony  !  How  did  I  know 
where  you  were .''" 

"  I  won't  go  blaming  you.  I  could  say  a  good  deal, 
but  perhaps  it  would  be  misplaced.  What  do  you  wish 
me  to  do  ?" 

"  Nothing.  There  was  one  thing  more  I  wanted  to  tell 
you,  but  I  fancy  we've  seen  enough  of  one  another  for 


%    '.  AT    MELCHESTER  219 

the  present !     I  shall  think  over  what  you  said  about  your 
circumstances,  and  let  you  know." 

Thus  they  parted.  Jude  watched  her  disappear  in  the 
direction  of  the  hotel,  and  entered  the  railway  station 
close  by.  Finding  that  it  wanted  three-quarters  of  an 
hour  of  the  time  at  which  he  could  get  a  train  back  to 
Alfredston,  he  strolled  mechanically  into  the  city  as  far  as 
to  the  Fourvvays,  where  he  stood  as  he  had  so  often  stood 
before,  and  surveyed  Chief  Street  stretching  ahead,  with 
its  college  after  college,  in  picturesqueness  unrivalled 
except  by  such  Continental  vistas  as  the  Street  of  Palaces 
in  Genoa,  the  lines  of  the  buildings  being  as  distinct  in 
the  morning  air  as  in  an  architectural  drawing.  But  Jude 
was  far  from  seeing  or  criticising  these  things;  they  were 
hidden  by  an  indescribable  consciousness  of  Arabella's 
midnight  contiguity,  a  sense  of  degradation  at  his  revived 
experiences  with  her,  of  her  appearance  as  she  lay  asleep 
at  dawn,  which  set  upon  his  motionless  face  a  look  as  of 
one  accursed.  If  he  could  only  have  felt  resentment  tow- 
ards her  he  would  hav^e  been  less  unhappy ;  but  he  pitied 
while  he  contemned  her. 

Jude  turned  and  retraced  his  steps.  Drawing  again 
towards  the  station,  he  started  at  hearing  his  name  pro- 
nounced— less  at  the  name  than  at  the  voice.  To  his 
great  surprise,  no  other  than  Sue  stood  like  a  vision  before 
him — her  look  bodeful  and  anxious  as  in  a  dream,  her  lit- 
tle mouth  nervous,  and  her  strained  eyes  speaking  re- 
proachful inquiry. 

"  Oh,  Jude — I  am  so  glad — to  meet  you  like  this!"  she 
said,  in  quick,  uneven  accents  not  far  from  a  sob.  Then 
she  flushed  as  she  observed  his  thought  that  they  had  not 
met  since  her  marriage. 

They  looked  away  from  each  other  to  hide  their  emo- 
tion, took  each  other's  hand  without  further  speech,  and 
went  on  together  a  while,  till  she  glanced  at  him  with  fur- 
tive solicitude.  "  I  arrived  at  Alfredston  station  last 
night,  as  you  asked  me  to,  and  there  was  nobody  to  meet 


220  JUDK  THE   OBSCURE 

mc.  But  I  reached  Marygrecn  alone,  and  they  told  me 
aunt  was  a  trifle  better.  I  sat  up  with  her,  and  as  you 
(lid  not  come  all  night  I  was  frightened  about  you  —  I 
tliought  that  perhaps,  when  you  found  yourself  back  in 
the  old  city,  you  were  upset  at — at  thinking  I  was— mar- 
ried, and  not  there  as  I  used  to  be  ;  and  that  you  had  no- 
body to  speak  to  ;  so  you  had  tried  to  drown  your  gloom  ! 
— as  you  did  at  that  former  time  when  you  were  disap- 
pointed about  entering  as  a  student,  and  had  forgotten 
your  promise  to  me  that  you  never  would. again.  And 
this,  I  thought,  was  why  you  hadn't  come  to  meet  me  !" 

"And  you  came  to  hunt  me  up,  and  deliver  me,  like  a 
good  angel !" 

"  I  thought  I  would  come  by  the  morning  train  and  try 
to  find  you — in  case — in  case — " 

"  I  did  think  of  my  promise  to  you,  dear,  continually  ! 
I  shall  nev^er  break  out  again  as  I  did,  I  am  sure.  I  may 
have  been  doing  nothing  better,  but  I  was  not  doing  that 
—  I  loathe  the  thought  of  it." 

"  I  am  glad  your  staying  had  nothing  to  do  with  that. 
But,"  she  said,  tiie  faintest  pout  entering  into  her  tone, 
"you  didn't  come  back  last  night  and  meet  me,  as  you 
engaged  to !" 

"  I  didn't — I  am  sorry  to  say.  I  had  an  appointment 
at  nine  o'clock— too  late  for  me  to  catch  the  train  that 
would  have  met  yours,  or  to  get  home  at  all." 

Looking  at  his  loved  one  as  she  appeared  to  him  now, 
in  his  tender  thought  the  sweetest  and  most  disinterested 
comrade  that  he  had  ever  had,  living  largely  in  vivid 
imaginings,  so  ethereal  a  creature  that  her  spirit  could  be 
seen  trembling  through  her  limbs,  he  felt  heartily  ashamed 
^^of  his  earthliness  in  spending  the  hours  he  had  spent  in 


/  Arabella's  company.  There  was  soraethin^g^rude  and  im- 
moral in  thrusting  these  recent  facts  of  his  life  upon  the 
mind  of  one  who,  to  him,  was  so  uncarnate  as  to  seem  at 
times  impossible-asa  human  wife  to  any  average  man. 
And   yet   she  was   Phillotson's.     How  she  had   become 


J^.  AT    MELCHESTER  221 

such,  how  she  lived  as  such,  passed  his  comprehension  as 
he  regarded  her  to-day. 

"  You'll  go  back  with  me  ?"  he  said.  "  There's  a  train 
just  now.  I  wonder  how  my  aunt  is  by  this  time.  .  .  .  And 
so.  Sue,  you  really  came  on  my  account  all  this  way!  At 
what  an  early  time  you  must  liave  started,  poor  thing!" 

"  Yes.  Sitting  up  watching  alone  made  me  all  nerves 
for  you,  and  instead  of  going  to  bed  when  it  got  light  I 
started.  And  now  you  won't  frighten  me  like  this  again 
about  your  morals  for  nothing.^" 

He  was  not  so  sure  that  she  had  been  frightened  about 
his  morals  for  nothing.  He  released  her  hand  till  they 
had  entered  the  train— it  seemed  the  same  carriage  he 
iiad  lately  got  out  of  with  another— where  they  sat  down 
side  by  side,  Sue  between  him  and  the  window.  He  re- 
garded the  delicate  lines  of  her  profile,  and  the  small, 
tight,  apple-like  curves  of  her  bodice,  so  different  from 
Arabella's  amplitudes.  Though  she  knew  he  was  look- 
ing at  her  she  did  not  turn  to  him,  but  kept  her  eyes 
forward,  as  if  afraid  that  by  meeting  his  own  some  trou- 
blous discussion  would  be  initiated. 

"Sue — you  are  married  now,  you  know,  like  me;  and 
yet  we  have  been  in  such  a  hurry  that  we  have  not  said  a 
word  about  it !" 

"  There's  no  necessity,"  she  quickly  returned. 

"Oh,  well — perhaps  not.  .  .  .  But  I  wish — " 

"Judc— don't  talk  about  7/u-—]  wish  you  wouldn't!" 
she  entreated.  "  It  distresses  me,  rather.  Forgive  my 
saying  it !  .  .  .  Where  did  you  stay  last  night?" 

She  had  asked  the  question  in  perfect  innocence,  to 
change  the  topic.  He  knew  that,  and  said,  merely,  "  At 
an  inn,"  though  it  would  have  been  a  relief  to  tell  her 
of  his  meeting  with  an  unexpected  one.  But  the  latter's 
fmal  announcement  of  her  marriage  in  Australia  bewil- 
dered him  lest  wiiat  he  might  say  should  do  his  ignorant 
wife  an  injury. 

Their  talk  proceeded  I)ut  awkwardly  till  they  reached 


222  JUDE  THE  OBSCURE 

Alfredston.  That  Sue  was  not  as  she  had  been,  but  was 
labelled  "  Phillotson,"  paralyzed  Jude  whenever  he  wanted 
to  commune  with  her  as  an  individual.  Yet  she  seemed 
unaltered — he  could  not  say  why.  There  remained  the 
five-mile  extra  journey  into  the  country,  which  it  was  just 
as  easy  to  walk  as  to  drive,  the  greater  part  of  it  being 
uphill.  Jude  had  never  before  in  his  life  gone  that  road 
with  Sue,  though  he  had  with  another.  It  was  now  as  if 
he  carried  a  bright  light,  which  temporarily  banished  the 
shady  associations  of  the  earlier  time. 

Sue  talked  ;  but  Jude  noticed  that  she  still  kept  the 
conversation  from  herself.  At  length  he  inquired  if  her 
husband  were  well. 

"Oh  yes,"  she  said.  "  He  is  obliged  to  be  in  the  school 
all  the  day,  or  he  would  have  come  with  me.  He  is  so 
good  and  kind  that  to  accompany  me  he  would  have  dis- 
missed the  school  for  a  day,  even  against  his  principles — 
for  he  is  strongly  opposed  to  giving  casual  holidays — only 
I  wouldn't  let  him.  I  felt  it  would  be  better  to  come 
alone.  Aunt  Drusilla,  I  knew,  was  so  very  eccentric  ;  and 
his  being  almost  a  stranger  to  her  now  would  have  made 
it  irksome  to  both.  Since  it  turns  out  that  she  is  hardly 
conscious,  I  am  glad  I  did  not  ask  him." 

Jude  had  walked  moodily  while  this  praise  of  Phillot- 
son was  being  expressed.      "  Mr.  Phillotson  obliges  you 
in  everything,  as  he  ought,"  he  said. 
■  "  Of  course." 

"  You  ought  to  be  a  happy  wife." 

"  And  of  course  I  am." 

"  Bride,  I  might  almost  have  said,  as  yet.  It  is  not  so 
many  weeks  since  I  gave  you  to  him,  and — " 

"Yes — I  know,  I  know  !"  There  was  something  in  her 
face  which  belied  her  late  assuring  words,  so  strictly  prop- 
er and  so  lifelessly  spoken  that  they  might  have  been 
taken  from  a  list  of  model  speeches  in  The  Wife's  Guide 
to  Conduct.  Jude  knew  the  quality  of  ever}^  vibration 
in  Sue's  voice,  could  read  every  symptom  of  her  mental 


5[_T  AT   MELCHESTER  223 

condition  ;  and  he  was  convinced  that  she  was  unhappy, 
although  she  had  not  been  a  month  married.  But  her 
rushing  away  thus  from  home,  to  see  the  last  of  a  rela- 
tive whom  she  had  hardly  known  in  her  life,  proved 
nothing,  for  Sue  naturally  did  such  things  as  those. 

"  Well,  you  have  my  good  wishes  now,  as  always,  Mrs. 
Phillotson." 

She  reproached  him  by  a  glance. 

"  No,  you  are  not  Mrs.  Phillotson,"  murmured  Judc. 
"You  are  dear,  free  Sue  Bridehead,  only  you  don't  know  / 

it,    v^fedom  has  not  yet  annihilated  and  digested  you    ^ 
in  its  vast  maw  as  an  atom  which  has  no  further  indlvid-   ^^ 
uality.^N, 

Sue  piit  on  a  look  of  being  offended,  till  she  answered, 
"Nor  has  husbandom  you,  so  far  as  1  can  see  !" 

"  But  it  has  !"  he  said,  shaking  his  head  sadly. 

When  they  reached  the  lone  cottage  under  the  firs,  be- 
tween the  Brown  House  and  Marygreen,  in  which  Jude 
and  Arabella  had  lived  and  quarrelled,  he  turned  to  look 
at  it.  A  squalid  family  lived  there  now.  He  could  not 
help  saying  to  Sue  :  "  That's  the  house  my  wife  and  I  oc- 
cupied the  whole  of  the  time  we  lived  together.  I  brought 
her  home  to  that  house." 

She  looked  at  it.  "  That  to  you  was  what  the  school- 
house  at  Shaston  is  to  me." 

"Yes;  but  I  was  not  very  happy  there,  as  you  are  in 
yours." 

She  closed  her  lips  in  rctortive  silence,  and  they  walked 
some  way  till  she  glanced  at  him  to  see  how  he  was  tak- 
ing it.  "  Of  course  1  may  have  exaggerated  your  happi- 
ness—one never  knows,"  he  continued,  blandly. 

"Don't  think  that,  Jude,  for  a  moment,  even  though 
you  may  have  said  it  to  sting  me.  He's  as  good  to  me 
as  a  man  can  be,  and  gives  me  perfect  liberty — which 
elderly  husbands  don't  do  in  general.  ...  If  you  think  I 
am  not  happy  because  he's  too  old  for  me,  you  are 
wrong." 


224  JUDE  THE  OBSCURE 

"  I  don't  think  anything  against  him — to  you,  dear." 

"  And  you  won't  say  things  to  distress  me,  will  you  ?" 

"  I  will  not." 

He  said  no  more,  but  he  knew  that,  from  some  cause 
or  other,  in  taking  Phillotson  as  a  husband,  Sue  felt  that 
s]*e-4iad  donenvh-at  she  _QiiOrht-tu^t-to--hftvc-done. 

They  plunged  into  the  concave  field,  on  the  other  side 
of  which  rose  the  village — -the  field  wherein  Jude  had  re- 
ceived a  thrashing  from  the  farmer  many  j-ears  earlier. 
On  ascending  to  the  village  and  approaching  the  house 
they  found  Mrs.  Edlin  standing  at  the  door,  who  at  sight 
of  them  lifted  her  hands  deprecatingly.  "  She's  down- 
stairs, if  you'll  believe  me  !"  cried  the  widow.  "Out  o' 
bed  she  got,  and  nothing  could  turn  her.  What  will 
come  o't  I  do  not  know  !" 

On  entering,  there  indeed  by  the  fireplace  sat  the  old 
woman,  wrapped  in  blankets,  and  turning  upon  them  a 
countenance  like  that  of  Scbastiano's  Lazarus.  They 
must  have  looked  their  amazement,  for  she  said,  in  a 
hollow  voice  : 

"Ah — sceered  ye,  have  I!  I  wasn't  going  to  bide  up 
there  no  longer,  to  please  nobody !  'Tis  more  than  flesh 
and  blood  can  bear,  to  be  ordered  to  do  this  and  that  by 
a  feller  that  don't  know  half  as  well  as  you  do  your- 
self! ..  .  Ah — you'll  rue  this  marrying  as  well  as  he  !"  she 
added,  turning  to  Sue.  "  All  our  family  do — and  nearly 
all  everybody  else's.  You  should  have  done  as  I  did,  you 
simpleton !  And  Phillotson,  the  school-master,  of  all  men  ! 
What  made  'ee  marry  him  ?" 

"  What  makes  most  women  marry,  aunt.-'" 

"  Ah  !     You  mean  to  say  you  loved  the  man !" 

"  I  don't  mean  to  say  anything  definite." 

"  Do  ye  love  un  ?" 

"  Don't  ask  me,  aunt." 

'•  I  can  mind  the  man  very  well.  A  very  civil,  honor- 
able liver;  but  Lord! — I  don't  want  to  wownd  your  feel- 
ings, but — there  be  certain  men  here  and  there  that  no 


j_J7  AT   MELCHESTER  225 

woman  of  any  niceness  can  stomach.  I  should  have  said 
he  was  one.  I  don't  say  so  now,  since  you  must  ha'  known 
better  than  I — but  that's  what  I  should  have  said  !" 

Sue  jumped  up  and  went  out.  Jude  followed  her,  and 
found  her  in  the  outhouse,  crying. 

"  Don't  cry,  dear,"  said  Jude,  in  distress.  "  She  means 
well,  but  is  very  crusty  and  queer  now,  you  know." 

"  Oh  no — it  isn't  that,"  said  Sue,  trying  to  dry  her  eyes. 
"  I  don't  mind  her  roughness  one  bit." 

"  What  is  it,  then  }" 

"  It  is  that  what  she  says  is — is  true  !" 

"God — what — you  don't  like  him  .^"  asked  Jude. 

"  I  don't  mean  that !"  she  said,  hastily.  "  That  I  ought 
— perhaps  I  ought  not  to  have  married  !" 

He  wondered  if  she  had  really  been  going  to  say  that 
at  first.  They  went  back,  and  the  subject  was  smoothed 
over,  and  her  aun't  took  rather  kindly  to  Sue,  telling  her 
that  not  many  young  women  newly  married  would  have 
come  so  far  to  see  a  sick  old  crone  like  her.  In  the 
afternoon  Sue  prepared  to  depart,  Jude  hiring  a  neighbor 
to  drive  her  to  Alfredston. 

"  I'll  go  with  you  to  the  station,  if  you'd  like .''"  he  said. 

She  would  not  let  him.  The  man  came  round  with 
the  trap,  and  Jude  helped  her  into  it,  perhaps  with  un- 
necessary attention,  for  she  looked  at  him  prohibitively. 

"  I  suppose — I  may  come  to  see  you  some  day,  when  I 
am  back  again  at  Melchester .'"  he  half-crossly  observed. 

She  bent  down  and  said,  softly,  "  No,  dear — you  are  not 
to  come  yet.     I  don't  think  you  are  in  a  good  mood." 

"  Very  well,  "  said  Jude.     "  Good-bye  !" 

"Good-bye  !"     She  waved  her  hand  and  was  gone. 

"  She's  right !     I  won't  go  !"  he  murmured. 

He  passed  the  evening  and  following  days  in  mortify- 
ing b)'^  every  possible  means  his  wish  to  see  her,  nearly 
starving  himself  in  attempts  to  extinguish  by  fasting  his 
passionate  tendency  to  love  her.  He  read  sermons  on 
discipline,  and    hunted    up   passages  in   Church    history 

'5 


226  JUDE  THE   OBSCURE 

that  treated  of  the  Ascetics  of  the  second  century.  Be- 
fore he  had  returned  from  Marygreen  to  Mclchester  there 
arrived  a  letter  from  Arabella.  The  sight  of  it  revived  a 
stronger  feeling  of  self-condemnation  for  his  brief  return 
to  her  society  than  for  his  attachment  to  Sue. 

The  letter,  he  perceived,  bore  a  London  postmark:  in- 
stead of  the  Christminster  one.  Arabella  informed  him 
that  a  few  days  after  their  parting  in  the  morning  at 
Christminster,  she  had  been  surprised  by  an  affectionate 
letter  from  her  Australian  husband,  formerly  manager  of 
the  hotel  in  Sydney.  He  had  come  to  England  on  pur- 
pose to  find  her,  and  had  taken  a  free,  fully -licensed 
public  in  Lambeth,  where  he  wished  her  to  join  him  in 
conducting  the  business,  which  was  likely  to  be  a  very 
thriving  one,  the  house  being  situated  in  an  excellent, 
densely  populated,  gin -drinking  neighborhood,  and  al- 
ready doing  a  trade  of  £200  a  month,  which  could  be 
easily  doubled. 

As  he  had  said  that  he  loved  her  very  much  still,  and 
implored  her  to  tell  him  where  she  was,  and  as  they  had 
only  parted  in  a  slight  tiff,  and  as  her  engagement  in 
Christminster  was  only  temporary,  she  had  just  gone  to 
join  him  as  he  urged.  She  could  not  help  feeling  that 
she  belonged  to  him  more  than  to  jude,  since  she  had 
properly  married  him,  and  had  lived  with  him  much 
longer  than  with  her  first  husband.  In  thus  wishing 
Jude  good-bye  she  bore  him  no  ill-will,  and  trusted  he 
would  not  turn  upon  her,  a  weak  woman,  and  inform 
against  her,  and  bring  her  to  ruin  now  that  she  had  a 
chance  of  improving  her  circumstances  and  leading  a 
genteel  life. 


X 

JUDE  returned  to  Melchester,  which  had  the  question- 
able recommendation  of  being  only  a  dozen  and  a  half 
miles  from  his  Sue's  now  permanent  residence.  At  first  he 
felt  that  this  nearness  was  a  distinct  reason  for  not  going 
southward  at  all ;  but  Christminster  was  too  sad  a  place  to 
bear,  while  the  proximity  of  Shaston  to  Melchester  might 
afford  him  the  glory  of  worsting  the  Enemy  in  a  close  en- 
gagement, such  as  was  deliberately  sought  by  the  priests 
and  virgins  of  the  early  Church,  who,  disdaining  an  ig- 
nominious flight  from  temptation,  became  even  chamber- 
partners  with  impunity.  Jude  did  not  pause  to  remember 
that,  in  the  laconic  words  of  the  historian,  "  insulted  Nature 
sometimes  vindicated  her  rights"  in  such  circumstances. 

He  now  returned  with  feverish  desperation  to  his  study 
for  the  priesthood  —  in  the  recognition  that  the  single- 
mindedness  of  his  aims,  and  his  fidelity  to  the  cause,  had  ^^ 

been  more  than  questionable  of  late.  His  passion  for 
Sue  troubled  his  soul ;  yet  his  abandonment  to  the  soci- 
ety of  Arabella  for  twelve  hours  seemed  instinctively  a 
worse  thing — even  though  she  had  not  told  him  of  her 
Sydney  husband  till  afterwards.  He  had,  he  verily  be- 
lieved, overcome  all  tendency  to  fly  to  liquor — which,  in- 
deed, he  had  never  done  from  taste,  but  merely  as  an  es- 
cape from  intolerable  misery  of  mind.  Yet  he  perceived 
with  despondency  that,  taken  all  round,  he  was  a  man  of 
too  many  passions  to  make  a  good  clergyman  ;  the  utmost 
he  coiHcrhope'Tor'was  that  in  a  life  of  constant  internal 
warfare  between  flesh  and  spirit  the  former  might  not 
always  be.victprious. 


228  JUDE  THE  OBSCURE 

As  a  hobby,  auxiliary  to  his  readings  in  Divinity,  he 
developed  his  slight  skill  in  church  music  and  thorough- 
bass, till  he  could  join  in  part-singing  from  notation  with 
some  accuracy.  A  mile  or  two  from  Melchester  there 
was  a  restored  village  church,  to  which  Jude  had  origi- 
nally gone  to  fix  the  new  columns  and  capitals.  By  this 
means  he  had  become  acquainted  with  the  organist,  and 
the  ultimate  result  was  that  he  joined  the  choir  as  a  bass 
voice. 

He  walked  out  to  this  parish  twice  every. Sunday,  and 
sometimes  in  the  week.  One  evening  about  Easter  the 
choir  met  for  practice,  and  a  new  hymn,  which  Jude  had 
heard  of  as  being  by  a  Wessex  composer,  was  to  be  tried 
and  prepared  for  the  following  week.  It  turned  out  to 
be  a  strangely  emotional  composition.  As  they  all  sang 
it  over  and  over  again  its  harmonies  grew  upon  Jude,  and 
moved  him  exceedingly. 

When  they  had  finished  he  went  round  to  the  organist 
to  make  inquiries.  The  score  was  in  manuscript,  the 
name  of  the  composer  being  at  the  head,  together  with 
the  title  of  the  hymn  :  "  The  Foot  of  the  Cross." 

'*  Yes,"  said  the  organist.     "  He  is  a  local  man.     He  is 
a  professional  musician  at  Kennetbridge — between  here 
and    Christminster.      The   vicar   knows    him.      He   was 
brought    up  and    educated    in    Christminster  traditions, 
which  accounts  for  the  quality  of  the  piece.     I  think  he 
plays  in  the  large  church  there,  and  has  a  surpliced  choir. 
He  comes  to  Melchester  sometimes,  and  once  tried  to  get 
/>     the  Cathedral  organ  when  the  post  was  vacant.     The 
»         hymn  is  getting  about  everywhere  this  Easter." 
^'  As  he  walked,  humming  the  air,  on  his  way  home,  Jude 

fell  to  musing  on  its  composer,  and  the  reasons  why  he 
composed  it.  What  a  man  of  sympathies  he  must  be  ! 
Perplexed  andharassed  as  lie  himself  was  about  Sue,  and 
Arabella,  and  troubled  as  was  his  conscience  by  the  com- 
plication of  his  position,  how  he  would  like  to  know  that 
man  !     "  He  of  all  men  would  understand  my  difficulties," 


i»  ^ 


X^  AT   MELCHESTER  229 

said  the  impulsive  Jude.  If  there  were  any  person  in  the 
world  to  choose  as  a  confidant,  this  composer  would  be 
the  one,  for  he  must  have  suffered,  and  throbbed,  and 
yearned. 

In  brief,  ill  as  he  could  afford  the  time  and  money  for 
the  journey,  Favvley  resolved,  like  the  child  that  he  was, 
to  go  to  Kennetbridge  the  very  next  Sunday.  He  duly 
started,  early  in  the  morning,  for  it  was  only  by  a  series 
of  crooked  railways  that  he  could  get  to  the  town.  About 
mid-day  he  reached  it,  and,  crossing  the  bridge  into  the 
quaint  old  borough,  he  inquired  for  the  house  of  the  com- 
poser. 

They  told  him  it  was  a  red  brick  building  some  little 
way  farther  on.  Also  that  the  gentleman  himself  had 
just  passed  along  the  street  not  five  minutes  before. 

"  Which  way.?"  asked  Jude,  with  alacrity. 

"  Straight  along  homeward  from  church." 

Jude  hastened  on,  and  soon  had  the  pleasure  of  observ- 
ing: a  man  in  a  black  coat  and  a  black  slouched  felt  hat 
no  considerable  distance  ahead.  Stretching  out  his  legs 
yet  more  widely,  he  stalked  after.  "  A  hungry  soul  in 
pursuit  of  a  full  soul !"  he  said.  "  I  must  speak  to  that 
man." 

He  could  not,  however,  overtake  the  musician  before 
he  had  entered  his  own  house,  and  then  arose  the  ques- 
tion if  this  were  an  expedient  time  to  call.  Whether  or 
not,  he  decided  to  do  so  there  and  then,  now  that  he  had 
got  here,  the  distance  home  being  too  great  for  him  to 
wait  till  late  in  the  afternoon.  This  man  of  soul  would 
understand  scant  ceremony,  and  might  be  quite  a  perfect 
adviser  in  a  case  in  which  an  earthly  and  illegitimate 
passion  had  cunningly  obtained  entrance  into  his  heart 
through  the  opening  afforded  for  religion. 

Jude  accordingly  rang  the  bell,  and  was  admitted. 

The  musician  came  to  him  in  a  moment,  and  being  re- 
spectably dressed,  good-looking,  and  frank  in  manner, 
Jude  obtained  a  favorable  reception.     He  was,  neverthe- 


^ 


230  JUDE  THE  OBSCURE 

less,  conscious  that  there  would  be  a  certain  awkwardness 
in  explaining  his  errand. 

"  I  have  been  singing  in  the  choir  of  a  little  church  near 
Melchester,"  he  said.  "  And  we  have  this  week  practised 
'  The  Foot  of  the  Cross,'  which,  I  understand,  sir,  that 
you  composed.^" 

"  I  did — a  year  or  so  ago." 

"  I — like  it.     I  think  it  supremely  beautiful." 

"  Ah,  well — other  people  have  said  so  too..  Yes,  there's 
money  in  it,  if  I  could  only  see  about  getting  it  published. 
I  have  other  compositions  to  go  with  it,  too ;  I  wish  I 
could  bring  them  out,  for  I  haven't  made  a  five-pound 
note  out  of  any  of  them  yet.  These  publishing  people — 
they  want  the  copyright  of  an_pbscur.e  composer's  work,  ^ 
such  as  mine  is,  for  aTmosness  than  I  shouldTTav^to  pay 
a  person  for  making  a  fair  manuscript  copy  of  the  score. 
The  one  you  speak  of  I  have  lent  to  various  friends  about 
here  and  Melchester,  and  so  it  has  got  to  be  sung  a  little. 
But  music  is  a  poor  staff  to  lean  on — I  am  giving  it  up 
entirely.  You  must  go  into  trade  if  you  want  to  make 
money  nowadays.  The  wine  business  is  what  I  am  think- 
ing of.  This  is  my  forthcoming  list — it  is  not  issued  yet 
— but  you  can  take  one." 

He  handed  Jude  an  advertisement  list  of  several  pages 
in  booklet  shape,  ornamentally  margined  with  a  red  line, 
in  which  were  set  forth  the  various  clarets,  champagnes, 
ports,  sherries,  and  other  wines  with  which  he  purposed 
to  initiate  his  new  venture.  It  took  Jude  rather  by  sur- 
prise that  the  man  with  the  soul  was  thus  and  thus ;  and 
he  felt  that  he  could  not  open  up  his  confidences. 

They  talked  a  little  longer,  but  constrainedly ;  for  when 
the  musician  found  that  Jude  was  a  poor  man  his  manner 
changed  from  what  it  had  been  while  Jude's  appearance 
and  address  deceived  him  as  to  his  position  and  pursuits. 
Jude  stammered  out  something  about  his  feelings  in  wish- 
ing to  congratulate  the  author  on  such  an  exalted  compo- 
sition, and  took  an  embarrassed  leave. 


JL,-  AT   MELCHESTER  23 1 

All  the  way  home  by  the  slow  Sunday  train,  sitting  in  the 
fireless  waiting-rooms  on  this  cold  spring  day,  he  was  de- 
pressed enough  at  his  simplicity  in  taking  such  a  journey. 
But  no  sooner  did  he  reach  his  Melchester  lodging  than 
he  found  awaiting  him  a  letter  which  had  arrived  that 
morning  a  few  minutes  after  he  had  left  the  house.  It 
was  a  contrite  little  note  from  Sue,  in  which  she  said, 
with  sweet  humility,  that  she  felt  she  had  been  horrid  in 
telling  him  he  was  not  to  come  to  see  her ;  that  she  de- 
spised herself  for  having  been  so  conventional ;  and  that 
he  was  to  be  sure  to  come  by  the  eleven-forty-five  train 
that  very  Sunday,  and  have  dinner  with  them  at  half-past 
one.. 

Jude  almost  tore  his  hair  at  having  missed  this  letter 
till  it  was  too  late  to  act  upon  its  contents ;  but  he  had 
chastened  himself  considerably  of  late,  and  at  last  his 
chimerical  expedition  to  Kennetbridge  really  did  seem  to 
have  been  another  special  intervention  of  Providence  to 
keep  him  away  from  temptation.  But  a  growing  impa- 
tience of  faith,  which  he  had  noticed  in  himself  more  than 
once  of  late,  made  him  pass  over  in  ridicule  the  idea  that 
God  sent  people  on  fools'  errands.  He  longed  to  see  her; 
he  was  angry  at  having  missed  her;  and  he  wrote  instant- 
ly, telling  her  what  had  happened,  and  saying  he  had  not 
enough  patience  to  wait  till  the  following  Sunday,  but 
would  come  any  day  in  the  week  that  she  liked  to  name. 

Since  he  wrote  a  little  over- ardently.  Sue,  as  her  man- 
ner was,  delayed  her  reply  till  Thursday  before  Good  Fri- 
day, when  she  said  he  might  come  that  afternoon  if  he 
wished,  this  being  the  earliest  day  on  which  she  could 
welcome  him,  for  she  was  now  assistant-teacher  in  her  hus- 
band's school.  Jude  therefore  got  leave  from  the  Cathe- 
dral works  at  the  trifiing  expense  of  a  stoppage  of  pay^ 
and  went. 


i 


Part  IV 

AT  SHASTON 


"  Whoso  pj-efers  either  Matrimony  or  other  Ordinance  before  the 
Good  of  Man  ajid  the  plain  Exigence  of  Charity,  let  him  profess 
Papist,  or  Protestant,  or  what  he  zuill,  he  is  no  better  than  a  Phar- 
isee."— J.  Milton. 


l^ 


I 

Shaston,  the  ancient  British  Palladour, 

"From  whose  foundation  first  such  strange  reports  arise" 

(as  Drayton  sang  it),  was,  and  is,  in  itself  the  city  of  a 
dream.  Vague  imaginings  of  its  castle,  its  three  mints, 
its  magnificent  apsidal  Abbey,  the  chief  glory  of  South 
Wessex,  its  twelve  churches,  its  shrines,  chantries,  hospi- 
tals, its  gabled  freestone  mansions  —  all  now  ruthlessly 
swept  away— throw  the  visitor,  even  against  his  will,  into 
a  pensive  melancholy,  which  the  stimulating  atmosphere 
and  limitless  landscape  around  him  can  scarcely  dispel. 
The  spot  was  the  burial-place  of  a  king  and  a  queen,  of 
abbots  and  abbesses,  saints  and  bishops,  knights  and 
squires.  The  bones  of  King  Edward  "  the  Martyr,"  care- 
fully removed  hither  for  holy  preservation,  brought  Shas- 
ton a  renown  which  made  it  the  resort  of  pilgrims  from 
every  part  of  Europe,  and  enabled  it  to  maintain  a  repu- 
tation extending  far  beyond  English  shores.  To  this  fair 
creation  of  the  great  Middle- Age  the  Dissolution  was,  as 
historians  tell^  us,  the  death-knell.  With  the  destruction 
of  the  enormous  abbey  the  whole  place  collapsed  in  a 
general  ruin  ;  the  Martyr's  bones  met  with  the  fate  of  the 
sacred  pile  that  held  them,  and  not  a  stone  is  now  left  to 
tell  where  they  lie. 

The  natural  picturesqueness  and  singularity  of  the  town 
still  remain  ;  but,  strange  to  say.  these  qualities,  which 
were  noted  by  many  writers  in  ages  when  scenic  beauty 
is  said  not  to  have  been  unappreciated,  arc  passed  over 


236  JUDE  THE   OBSCURE 

in  this,  and  one  of  the  queerest  and  quaintest  spots  in 
England  stands  virtually  unvisited  to-day. 

It  has  a  unique  position  on  the  summit  of  an  almost 
perpendicular  scarp,  rising  on  the  north,  south,  and  west 
sides  of  the  borough  out  of  the  deep  alluvial  Vale  of 
Blackmoor,  the  view  from  the  Castle  Green  over  three 
counties  of  verdant  pasture  — South,  Mid,  and  Nether 
Wessex — being  as  sudden  a  surprise  to  the  unexpectant 
traveller's  eyes  as  the  medicinal  air  is  to  his  lungs.  Im- 
possible to  a  railway,  it  can  best  be  reached  on  foot,  next 
best  by  light  vehicles;  and  it  is  hardly  accessible  to  these 
but  by  a  sort  of  isthmus  on  the  northeast,  that  connects 
it  with  the  high  chalk  table-land  on  that  side. 

Such  is,  and  such  was,  the  now  world -forgotten  Shas- 
ton,  or  Palladour.  Its  situation  rendered  water  the  great 
want  of  the  town  ;  and  within  living  memory  horses,  don- 
keys, and  men  may  have  been  seen  toiling  up  the  winding 
ways  to  the  top  of  the  steep,  laden  with  tubs  and  barrels 
filled  from  the  wells  beneath  the  mountain,  and  hawkers 
retailing  their  contents  at  the  price  of  a  half-penny  a 
bucketful. 

This  difficulty  in  the  water  supply,  together  with  two 
other  odd  facts — namely,  that  the  chief  graveyard  slopes 
up  as  steeply  as  a  roof  behind  the  church,  and  that  in 
former  times  the  town  passed  through  a  curious  period  of 
corruption,  conventual  and  domestic — gave  rise  to  the  say- 
ing that  Shaston  was  remarkable  for  three  consolatipns> 
to  man  such  as  the  world  afforded  not  elsewhere :  it  was  J 
a  place  where  the  churchyard  lay  nearer  heaven  than  the/ 
church  steeple,  where  beer  was  more  plentiful  than  waterY 
and  where  there  were  more  wanton  women  than  honest 
wives  and  maids.  It  is  also  said  that  after  the  Middle 
Ages  the  inhabitants  were  too  poor  to  pay  their  priests, 
and  hence  were  compelled  to  pull  down  their  churches, 
and  refrain  altogether  from  the  public  worship  of  God — a 
necessity  which  they  bemoaned  over  their  cups  in  the  set- 
tles of  their  inns  on  Sunday  afternoons.     In  tho.se  days 


^*  AT   SHASTON  237 

the  Shastonians  were  apparently  not  without  a  sense  of 
humor. 

There  was  another  peculiarity  —  this  a  modern  one — 
which  Shaston  appeared  to  owe  to  its  site.  It  was  the 
resting-place  and  headquarters  of  the  proprietors  of  wan- 
dering vans,  shows,  shooting-galleries,  and  other  itinerant 
concerns,  whose  business  lay  largely  at  fairs  and  markets. 
As  strange  wild  birds  are  seen  assembled  on  some  lofty 
promontory,  meditatively  pausing  for  longer  flights,  or  to 
return  by  the  course  they  followed  thither,  so  here,  in 
this  cliff-town,  stood  in  stultified  silence  the  yellow  and 
green  caravans  bearing  names  not  local,  as  if  surprised  by 
a  change  in  the  landscape  so  violent  as  to  hinder  their 
further  progress  ;  and  here  they  usually  remained  all  the 
winter  till  they  turned  to  seek  again  their  old  tracks  in 
the  following  spring. 

It  was  to  this  breezy  and  whimsical  spot  that  Jude  as- 
cended from  the  nearest  station  for  the  first  time  in  his 
life  about  four  o'clock  one  afternoon,  and  entering  on  the 
summit  of  the  peak  after  a  toilsome  climb,  passed  the 
first  houses  of  the  aerial  town,  and  drew  towards  the 
school-house.  The  hour  was  too  early;  the  pupils  were 
still  in  school,  humming  small,  like  a  swarm  of  gnats; 
and  he  withdrew  a  few  steps  along  Abbey  Walk,  whence 
he  regarded  the  spot  which  fate  had  made  the  home  of 
all  he  loved  best  in  the  world.  In  front  of  the  schools, 
which  were  extensive  and  stone-built,  grew  two  enormous 
beeches  with  smooth  mouse-colored  trunks,  as  such  trees 
will  only  grow  on  chalk  uplands.  Within  the  mullioned 
and  transomed  windows  he  could  see  the  black,  brown, 
and  flaxen  crowns  of  the  scholars  over  the  sills,  and,  to 
pass  the  time  away,  he  walked  down  to  the  level  terrace 
where  the  Abbey  gardens  once  had  spread,  his  heart 
throbbing  in  spite  of  him. 

Unwilling  to  enter  till  the  children  were  dismissed,  he 
remained  here  till  young  voices  could  be  heard  in  the 
open  air,  and  girls  in  white  pinafores  over  red  and  blue 


238  JUDE  THE   OBSCURE 

frocks  appeared  dancing  along  the  paths  which  the  ab- 
bess, prioress,  sub-prioress,  and  fifty  nuns  had  demurely 
paced  three  centuries  earlier.  Retracing  his  steps  he 
found  that  he  had  waited  too  long,  and  that  Sue  had 
gone  out  into  the  town  at  the  heels  of  the  last  scholar, 
Mr.  Phillotson  having  been  absent  all  the  afternoon  at  a 
teachers'  meeting  at  Shottsford. 

Jude  went  into  the  empty  school-room  and  sat  down, 
the  girl  who  was  sweeping  the  fioor  having  informed  him 
that  Mrs.  Phillotson  would  be  back  again  in  a  few  min- 
utes. A  piano  stood  near — actually  the  old  piano  that 
Phillotson  had  pos.sessed  at  Marygreen — and  though  the 
dark  afternoon  almost  prevented  him  seeing  the  notes, 
Jude  touched  them  in  his  humble  way,  and  could  not 
help  modulating  into  the  hymn  which  had  so  affected 
him  in  the  previous  week. 

A  figure  moved  behind  him,  and,  thinking  it  was  still 
the  girl  with  the  broom,  Jude  took  no  notice,  till  the  per- 
son came  close  and  laid  her  fingers  lightly  upon  his  bass 
hand.  The  imposed  hand  was  a  little  one  he  seemed  to 
know,  and  he  turned. 

"  Don't  stop,"  said  Sue.  "  I  like  it.  I  learned  it  before 
I  left  Melchester.  They  used  to  play  it  in  the  Training- 
School." 

"I  can't  strum  before  you  !     Play  it  for  me." 

"  Oh,  well — I  don't  mind." 

Sue  sat  down,  and  her  rendering  of  the  piece,  though 
not  remarkable,  seemed  divine  as  compared  with  his  own. 
She,  like  him,  was  evidently  touched  —  to  her  own  sur- 
prise— by  the  recalled  air ;  and  when  she  had  finished,  and 
he  moved  his  hand  towards  her,  it  met  his  own  half-way. 
Jude  grasped  it — just  as  he  had  done  before  her  marriage. 

"  It  is  odd,"  she  said,  in  a  voice  quite  changed,  "  that  I 
should  care  about  that  air  ;  because — " 

"  Because  what }" 

"  I  am  not  that  sort — quite." 

"  Not  easily  moved  }" 


L-r-  AT   SHASTON  239 

"  I  didn't  quite  mean  that." 

"  Oh,  but  you  are  one  of  that  sort,  for  you  are  just  like 
me  at  heart." 

"  But  not  at  head." 

She  played  on,  and  suddenly  turned  round ;  and  by  an 
unpremeditated  instinct,  each  clasped  the  other's  hand 
again. 

She  uttered  a  forced  little  laugh  as  she  relinquished  his 
quickly.  "  How  funny !"  she  said.  "  I  wonder  what  we 
both  did  that  for.?" 

"  I  suppose  because  we  are  both  alike,  as  I  said  before." 

"  Not  in  our  thoughts !  Perhaps  a  little  in  our  feel- 
ings." 

"  And  they  rule  thoughts.  .  .  .  Isn't  it  enough  to  make 
one  blaspheme  that  the  composer  of  that  hymn  is  one 
of  the  most  commonplace  men  I  ever  met !" 
,"What — you  know  him?" 

"  I  went  to  see  him." 

"  Oh,  you  goose — to  do  just  what  I  should  have  done  ! 
Why  did  you  ?" 

"  Because  we  are  not  alike,"  he  said,  drylv. 

"  Now  we'll  have  some  tea,"  said  Sue.  "  Shall  we  have 
it  here  instead  of  in  my  house  ?  It  is  no  trouble  to  get 
the  kettle  and  things  brought  in.  We  don't  live  at  the 
school,  you  know,  but  in  that  ancient  dwelling  across  the 
way  called  Old-Grove's  Place.  It  is  so  antique  and  dis- 
mal that  it  depresses  me  dreadfully.  Such  houses  are 
very  well  to  visit,  but  not  to  live  in — I  feel  crushed  into 
the  earth  by  the  weight  of  so  many  previous  lives  there 
spent.*  In  a  new  place  like  these  schools  there  is  only 
your  own  life  to  support.  Sit  down,  and  I'll  tell  Ada  to 
bring  the  tea-things  across." 

He  waited  in  the  light  of  the  stove,  the  door  of  which 
she  flung  open  before  going  out,  and  when  she  returned, 
followed  by  the  maiden  with  tea,  they  sat  down  by  the 
same  light,  assisted  by  the  blue  rays  of  a  spirit-lamp 
under  the  brass  kettle  on  the  stand. 


240  JUDE  THE  OBSCURE 

"  This  is  one  of  j'our  wedding-presents  to  me."  she  said, 
signifying  the  latter. 

"  Yes,"  said  Jude. 

The  kettle  of  his  gift  sang  with  some  satire  in  its  note, 
to  his  mind  ,  and  to  change  the  subject  he  said,  "  Do  you 
know  of  any  good  readable  edition  of  the  uncanonical 
books  of  the  New  Testament  ?  You  don't  read  them  in 
the  school,  I  suppose  ?" 

"Oh,  dear,  no!  —  'twould  alarm  the  neighborhood.  .  .  . 
Yes,  there  is  one.  I  am  not  familiar  with  it  now,  though 
I  was  interested  in  it  when  my  former  friend  was  alive. 
Cowper's  Apocryphal  Gospels!' 

"That  sounds  like  what  I  want."  His  thoughts,  however, 
reverted  with  a  twinge  to  the  "  former  friend  " — by  whom 
she  meant,  as  he  knew,  the  University  comrade  of  her  ear- 
lier days.    He  wondered  if  she  talked  of  him  to  Phillotson. 

"  The  Gospel  of  Nicodemus  is  very  nice,"  she  went  on, 
to  keep  him  from  his  jealous  thoughts,  which  she  read 
.clearly,  as  she  always  did.  Indeed,  when  they  talked  on 
an  indifferent  subject,  as  now,  there  was  ever  a  second 
silent  conversation  passing  between  their  emotions,  so 
perfect  was  the  reciprocity  between  them.  "  It  is  quite 
like  the  genuine  article.  All  cut  up  into  verses,  too;  so 
that  it  is  like  one  of  the  other  evangelists  read  in  a  dream, 
when  things  are  the  same,  yet  not  the  same.  But,  Jude, 
do  you  take  an  interest  in  those  questions  still  ?  Are 
you  getting  up  Apologetica?" 

"  Yes.     I  am  reading  Divinity  harder  than  ever." 

She  regarded  him  curiously. 

"  Why  do  you  look  at  me  like  that.^"  said  Jude.  * 

"  Oh — why  do  you  want  to  know  ?" 

"  I  am  sure  you  can  tell  me  anything  I  may  be  ignorant 
of  in  that  subject.  You  must  have  learned  a  lot  of  every- 
thing from  your  dear  dead  friend  !" 

"We  won't  get  on  to  that  now !"  she  coaxed.  "Will 
you  be  carving  out  at  that  church  again  next  week,  where 
you  learned  the  pretty  hymn  ?" 


L,-  AT   SHASTON  241 

"Yes,  perhaps." 

"That  will  be  very  nice.  Shall  I  come  and  see  you 
there.?  It  is  in  this  direction,  and  I  could  come  any 
afternoon  by  train  for  half  an  hour  ?" 

"No.     Don't  come!" 

"  What— aren't  we  going  to  be  friends,  then,  any  longer, 
as  we  used  to  be  }" 

"No." 

"  I  didn't  know  that.  I  thought  you  were  always  going 
to  be  kind  to  me  !" 

"  No,  I  am  not." 

"  What  have  I  done,  then  ?  I  am  sure  I  thought  we 
two — "    The  tremolo  in  her  voice  caused  her  to  break  off. 

"Sue,  I  sometimes  think  you  are  a  flirt,"  said  he, 
abruptly. 

There  was  a  momentary  pause,  till  she  suddenly  jumped 
up,  and.  to  his  surprise,  he  saw  by  the  kettle-flame  that 
her  face  was  flushed. 

"I  can't  talk  to  you  any  longer,  Jude,"  she  said,  the 
tragic  contralto  note  having  come  back  as  of  old.     "  It 
is  getting  too  dark  to  stay  together  like  this,  after  play- 
ing morbid  Good-Friday  tunes  that  make  one  feel  what 
one  shouldn't!  .  .  .  We  mustn't  sit  and  talk  in  this  way 
any  more  !    Yes — you  must  go  away,  for  you  mistake  me  ! 
I  am  very  much  the  reverse  of  what  you  say  so  cruelly — 
oh,  Jude,  it  was  cruel  to  say  that  !     Yet  I  can't  tell  you 
the  truth — I  should  shock  you  by  letting  you  know  how 
I  give  way  to  my  impulses,  and  how  much  I  feel  that  I 
shouldn't  have  been  provided  with  attractiveness  unless 
it  were  meant  to  be  e.vercised  !     Some  women's  love  of  I 
being  loved  is  insatiable  ;  and  so,  often,  is  their  love  of/ 
loving  ;  and  in  the  last  case  they  may  find  that  they  can't/ 
give  it  continuously  to  the  chamber-ofiicer  appointed  byV 
the  bishop's  license  to  receive  it.    But  you  are  so  straight- 
forward, Jude,  that  you  can't  understand  mc.  .  .  .  Now 
you  must  go.     I  am  sorry  my  husband  is  not  at  home." 

"  Are  you .'" 
16 


242  JUDE  THE   OBSCURE 

"  I  perceive  I  have  said  that  in  mere  convention ! 
Honestl3%  I  don't  think  I  am  sorry.  It  does  not  matter, 
either  way,  sad  to  say  !" 

As  they  had  overdone  the  grasp  of  hands  some  time 
sooner,  she  touched  his  fingers  but  lightly  when  he  went 
out  now.  He  had  hardly  gone  from  the  door  when, 
with  a  dissatisfied  look,  she  jumped  on  a  form  and  opened 
the  iron  casement  of  a  window  beneath  which  he  was 
passing  in  the  path  without.  "  When  do  you  leave  here 
to  catch  your  train,  Jude  ?"  she  asked. 

He  looked  up  in  some  surprise.  "  The  coach  that  runs 
to  meet  it  goes  in  three-quarters  of  an  hour  or  so." 

"  What  will  you  do  with  yourself  for  the  time  ?" 

"  Oh — wander  about,  I  suppose.  Perhaps  I  shall  go 
and  sit  in  the  old  church." 

"  It  does  seem  hard  of  me  to  pack  you  ofT  so  !  You 
have  thought  enough  of  churches,  Heaven  knows,  with- 
out going  into  one  in  the  dark.     Stay  there." 

"Where?" 

"  W^here  you  are.  I  can  talk  to  you  better  like  this  than 
when  you  were  inside.  ...  It  was  so  kind  and  tender  of 
you  to  give  up  half  a  day's  work  to  come  to  see  me  !  .  .  . 
You  are  Joseph,  the  dreamer  of  dreams,  dear  Jude.  Anda^ 
tragic  Don  Quixote.  And  sometimes  you  are  St.  Stephen, 
who,  while  they  were  stoning  him,  coulH  see  heaven 
opened.  Oh,  my  poor  friend  and  comrade,  you'll  suffer 
yet !" 

Now  that  the  high  window-sill  was  between  them,  so 
that  he  could  not  get  at  her,  she  seemed  not  to  mind  in- 
dulging in  a  frankness  she  had  feared  at  close  quarters. 
?I  have  been  thinking,"  she  continued,  still  in  the  tone 
/of  one  brimful  of  feeling,  "that  the  social  moulds  civili- 
zation fits  us  into  have  no  more  relation  to  our  actual 
shapes  than  the  conventional  shapes  of  the  constellations 
have  to  the  real  star-patterns.  I  am  called  Mrs.  Richard 
Phillotson,  living  a  calm  wedded  life  with  my  counterpart 
)f  that  name.     But  I  am  not  really  Mrs.  Richard  Phillot- 


AT   SHASTON  243 

son,  but  a  woman  tossed  about,  all  alone,  with  aberrant 
passions  and  unaccountable  antipathies.  .  .  .  Now  you 
mustn't  wait  longer,  or  you  will  lose  the  coach.  Come 
and  see  me  again.     You  must  come  to  the  house  then." 

"  Yes,"  said  Jude.     "  When  shall  it  be  ?" 

"To-morrow  week.  Good-bye — good-bye!"  She 
stretched  out  her  hand  and  stroked  his  forehead  pitifully 
— just  once.  Jude  said  good-bye,  and  went  away  into 
the  darkness. 

Passing  along  Bimport  Street  he  thought  he  heard  the 
wheels  of  the  coach  departing,  and,  truly  enough,  when 
he  reached  the  Duke's  Arms  in  the  Market  Place  the 
coach  had  gone.  It  was  impossible  for  him  to  get  to  the 
station  on  foot  in  time  for  this  train,  and  he  settled  him- 
self perforce  to  wait  for  the  next — the  last  to  Melchester 
that  night. 

He  wandered  about  a  while,  obtained  something  to  eat, 
and  then,  having  another  half-hour  on  his  hands,  his  feet 
involuntarily  took  him  through  the  venerable  graveyard 
of  Trinity  Church,  with  its  avenues  of  limes,  in  the  direc- 
tion of  the  schools  again.  They  were  entirely  in  dark- 
ness. She  had  said  she  lived  over  the  way  at  Old-Grove's 
Place,  a  house  which  he  soon  discovered  from  her  de- 
scription of  its  antiquity. 

A  glimmering  candle-light  shone  from  a  front  window, 
the  shutters  being  yet  unclosed.  He  could  see  the  in- 
terior clearly  —  the  floor  sinking  a  couple  of  steps  be- 
low the  road  without,  which  had  become  raised  during 
the  centuries  since  the  house  was  built.  Sue,  evidently 
just  come  in,  was  standing  with  her  hat  on  in  this  front 
parlor  or  sitting-room,  whose  walls  were  lined  with  wain- 
scoting of  panelled  oak  reaching  from  floor  to  ceiling,  the 
latter  being  crossed  by  huge  moulded  beams  only  a  little 
way  above  her  head.  The  mantel-piece  was  of  the  same 
heavy  description,  carved  with  Jacobean  pilasters  and 
scroll-work.  The  centuries  did,  indeed,  ponderously  over- 
hang a  young  wife  who  passed  her  time  here. 


4 


244  JUDE  THE   OBSCURE 

She  had  opened  a  rosewood  work-box,  and  was  looking 
at  a  photograph.  Having  contemplated  it  a  little  while 
she  pressed  it  against  her  bosom,  and  put  it  again  in  its 
place. 

Then,  becoming  aware  that  she  had  not  obscured  the 
windows,  she  came  forward  to  do  so,  candle  in  hand.  It 
was  too  dark  for  her  to  see  Jude  without,  but  he  could 
see  her  face  distinctly,  and  there  was  an  unmistakable 
tearfulness  about  the  dark,  long-lashed  eyes. 

She  closed  the  shutters,  and  Jude  turned  away  to  pursue 
his  solitary  journey  home.  "  Whose  photograph  was  she 
looking  at  .^"  he  said.  He  had  once  given  her  his;  but 
she  had  others,  he  knew.     Yet  it  was  his,  surely  ? 

He  knew  he  should  go  to  see  her  again,  according  to 
her  invitation.  Those  earnest  men  he  read  of,  the  saints, 
whom  Sue,  with  gentle  irreverence,  called  his  demi-gods, 
would  have  shunned  such  encounters  if  they  doubted 
their  own  strength.  But  he  could  not.  He  might  fast 
and  pray  during  the  whole  interval,  but  tlifi  bxunan  was 
more  powerful  in  him  than  the  DivineT 


II 

However,  if  God  disposed  not,  woman  did.  The  next 
morning  but  one  brought  him  this  note  from  her  : 

"Don't  come  next  week.  On  your  own  account  don't.  We 
were  too  free,  under  the  influence  of  that  morbid  hymn  and  the 
twilight.     Think  no  more  than  you  can  help  of 

"Susanna  Florenxe  Mary." 

The  disappointment  was  keen.  He  knew  her  mood,  the 
look  of  her  face,  when  she  subscribed  herself  at  length 
thus.  But,  whatever  her  mood,  he  could  not  say  she  was 
wrong  in  her  view.     He  replied  : 

"  I  acquiesce.  You  are  right.  It  is  a  lesson  in  renunciation 
which,  I  suppose,  I  ought  to  learn  at  this  season.  JUDE." 

He  despatched  the  note  on  Easter  Eve,  and  there 
seemed  a  finality  in  their  decisions.  But  other  forces 
and  laws  than  theirs  were  in  operation.  On  Easter  Mon- 
day morning  he  received  a  message  from  the  Widow  Ed- 
lir,  whom  he  had  directed  to  telegraph  if  anything  serious 
happened : 

"  Your  aunt  is  sinking.     Come  at  once." 

He  threw  down  his  tools  and  went.  Three  and  a  half 
hours  later  he  was  crossing  the  downs  about  Marygreen, 
and  presently  plunged  into  the  concave  field  across  which 
the  short  cut  was  made  to  the  village.  As  he  ascended 
on  the  other  side  a  laboring  man,  who  had  been  watching 


246  JUDE   THE   OBSCURE 

his  approach  from  agate  across  the  path,  moved  uneasily 
and  prepared  to  speak.  "  I  can  see  in  his  face  that  she  is 
dead,"  said  Jude.     "  Poor  Aunt  Drusilla  !" 

It  was  as  he  had  supposed,  and  Mrs.  Edlin  had  sent  out 
the  man  to  break  the  news  to  him. 

"She  wouldn't  have  knowed  'ee.  She  lay  like  a  doll 
wi'  glass  eyes;  so  it  didn't  matter  that  you  wasn't  here," 
said  he. 

Jude  went  on  to  the  house,  and  in  the  afternoon,  when 
everything  was  done,  and  the  layers-out  had-  finished  their 
beer  and  gone,  he  sat  down  alone  in  the  silent  place.  It 
was  absolutely  necessary  to  communicate  with  Sue,  though 
two  or  three  days  earlier  they  had  agreed  to  mutual  sev- 
erance.    He  wrote  in  the  briefest  terms : 

"Aunt  Drusilla  is  dead,  having  l)eea  taken  almost  suddenly. 
The  funeral  is  on  Friday  afternoon." 

He  remained  in  and  about  Marygreen  through  the  in- 
tervening days,  went  out  on  Friday  morning  to  see  that 
the  grave  was  finished,  and  wondered  if  Sue  would  come. 
She  had  not  written,  and  that  seemed  to  signify  rather 
that  she  would  come  than  that  she  would  not.  Having 
timed  her  by  her  only  possible  train,  he  locked  the  door 
about  mid-day,  and  crossed  the  hollow  field  to  the  verge 
of  the  upland  by  the  Brown  House,  where  he  stood  and 
looked  over  the  vast  prospect  northward,  and  over  the 
nearer  landscape  in  which  Alfredston  stood.  Two  miles 
behind  it  a  jet  of  white  steam  was  travelling  from  the 
left  to  the  right  of  the  picture. 

There  was  a  long  time  to  wait,  even  now,  till  he  would 
know  if  she  had  arrived.  He  did  wait,  however,  and  at 
last  a  small  hired  vehicle  pulled  up  at  the  bottom  of  the 
hill,  and  a  person  alighted,  the  conveyance  going  back, 
while  the  passenger  began  ascending  the  hill.  He  knew 
her  ;  and  she  looked  so  slender  to-day  that  it  seemed  as 
if  she  might  be  crushed  in  the  intensity  of  a  too  passion- 


AT   SHASTON  247 

ate  embrace — such  as  it  was  not  for  him  to  give.  Two- 
thirds  of  the  way  up  her  head  suddenly  took  a  solicitous 
poise,  and  he  knew  that  she  had  at  that  moment  recog- 
nized him.  Her  face  soon  began  a  pensive  smile,  which 
lasted  till,  having  descended  a  little  way,  he  met  her. 

"  I  thought,"  she  began,  with  nervous  quickness,  "  that 
it  would  be  so  sad  to  let  you  attend  the  funeral  alone  ! 
And  so — at  the  last  moment — I  came." 

"  Dear,  faithful  Sue  !"  mumured  Jude. 

With  the  elusiveness  of  her  curious  double  nature,  how- 
ever. Sue  did  not  stand  still  for  any  further  greeting, 
though  it  wanted  some  time  to  the  burial.  A  pathos  so 
unusually  compounded  as  that  which  attached  to  this 
hour  was  unlikely  to  repeat  itself  for  years,  if  ever,  and 
Jude  would  have  paused  and  meditated  and  conversed. 
But  Sue  either  saw  it  not  at  all,  or,  seeing  it  more  than 
he,  would  not  allow  herself  to  feel  it. 

The  sad  and  simple  ceremony  was  soon  over,  their  prog- 
ress to  the  church  being  almost  at  a  trot,  the  bustling  un- 
dertaker having  a  more  important  funeral  an  hour  later, 
three  miles  off.  Drusilla  was  put  into  the  new  ground, 
quite  away  from  her  ancestors.  Sue  and  Jude  had  gone 
side  b}^  side  to  the  grave,  and  now  sat  down  to  tea  in  the 
familiar  house,  their  lives  united  at  least  in  this  last  at- 
tention to  the  dead. 

"  She  was  opposed  to  marriage,  from  first  to  last,  you 
say  ?"  murmured  Sue. 

"  Yes.     Particularly  for  members  of  our  family." 

Her  eyes  met  his,  and  remained  on  him  a  while. 

"  We  are  rather  a  sad  family,  don't  you  think,  Jude  }" 

"  She  said  we  made  bad  husbands  and  wives.  Cer- 
tainly we  make  unhappy  ones.  At  all  events,  I  do,  for 
one!" 

Sue  was  silent.  "  Is  it  wrong,  Jude,"  she  said,  with  a 
tentative  tremor,  "for  a  husband  or  wife  to  tell  a  third 
person  that  they  are  unhappy  in  their  marriage?  If  a 
marriage   ceremony  is   a   religious   thing,  it   is   possibly 


248  JUDE   THE   OBSCURE 

wrong;  but  if  it  is  only  a  sordid  contract, based  on  mate- 
rial convenience  in  householding,  rating,  and  taxing,  and 
the  inheritance  of  land  and  money  by  children,  making  it 
necessary  that  the  male  parent  should  be  known— which 
it  seems  to  be — why  surely  a  person  may  say,  even  pro- 
claim upon  the  housetops,  that  it  hurts  and  grieves  him  or 
her?" 

"  I  have  said  so,  anyhow,  to  you." 

Presently  she  went  on  :  "  Are  there  many  couples,  do 
you  think,  where  one  dislikes  the  other  foi-  no  definite 
fault?" 

"  Yes,  I  suppose.  If  either  cares  for  another  person,  for 
instance." 

"  But  even  apart  from  that  ?  Wouldn't  the  woman,  for 
example,  be  very  bad  -  natured  if  she  didn't  like  to  live 
with  her  husband  ;  merely  "—her  voice  undulated,  and  he 
guessed  things—"  merely  because  she  had  a  personal  feel- 
ing against  it— a  physical  objection— a  fastidiousness,  or 
whatever  it  may  be  called— although  she  might  respect 
and  be  grateful  to  him?  I  am  merely  putting  a  case. 
Ought  she  to  try  to  overcome  her  pruderies  ?" 

Jude  threw  a  troubled  look  at  her.  He  said,  lookine 
away:  "  It  would  be  just  one  of  those  cases  in  which  my 
experiences  go  contrary  to  my  dogmas.  Speaking  as  an 
order-loving  man— which  I  hope  I  am,  though  I  fear  I  am 
not— I  should  say  yes.  Speaking  from  experience  and 
unbiassed  nature,  I  should  say  no.  .  .  .  Sue,  I  believe  you 
are  not  happy !" 

"Yes,  I  am  !"  said  she,  excitedly.  "  How  can  a  woman 
be  unhappy  who  has  only  been  married  eight  weeks  to  a 
man  she  chose  freely  ?" 

"Chose  freely !" 

"  Why  do  you  repeat  it  ?  .  .  .  But  I  have  to  go  back  by 
the  six-o'clock  train.  You  will  be  staying  on  here,  I  sup- 
pose ?" 

"  For  a  few  days,  to  wind  up  aunt's  aflfairs.  This  house 
is  gone  now.     Shall  I  go  to  the  train  with  you  ?" 


^  AT   SHASTON  249 

A  little  laugh  of  objection  came  from  Sue.  "  I  think 
not.     You  may  come  part  of  the  way." 

"But  stop— you  can't  go  to-night!  That  train  won't 
take  you  to  Shaston.  You  must  stay  and  go  back  to- 
morrow. Mrs.  Edlin  has  plenty  of  room,  if  you  don't  like 
to  stay  here.''" 

"Very  well,"  she  said,  dubiously.  "  I  didn't  tell  him  I 
would  come  for  certain." 

Jude  went  to  the  widow's  house  adjoining,  to  let  her 
know ;  and  returning  in  a  few  minutes,  sat  down  again. 

"  It  is  horrible  how  we  are  circumstanced,  Sue — horri- 
ble !"  he  said,  abruptly,  with  his  eyes  bent  to  the  floor. 

"  No  !     Why  ?" 

"  I  can't  tell  you  all  my  part  of  the  gloom.  Your  part 
is  that  you  ought  not  to  have  married  him.  I  saw  it  be- 
fore you  had  done  it,  but  I  thought  I  mustn't  interfere. 
I  was  wrong.     I  ought  to  have !" 

"  But  what  makes  you  assume  all  this,  dear  ?" 

"  Because  —  I  can  see  you  through  your  feathers,  my 
poor  little  bird  !" 

Her  hand  lay  on  the  table,  and  Jude  put  his  upon  it. 
Sue  drew  hers  away. 

"That's  absurd,  Sue," cried  he,  "  after  what  we've  been 
talking  about !  I  am  more  strict  and  formal  than  you,  if 
it  comes  to  that ;  and  that  you  should  object  to  such  an 
innocent  action  shows  that  you  are  ridiculously  incon- 
sistent!" 

"  Perhaps  it  was  too  prudish,"  she  said,  repentantly. 
"  Only,  I  have  fancied  it  was  a  sort  of  trick  of  ours— too 
frequent  perhaps.  There,  you  may  hold  it  as  much  as 
you  like.     Is  that  good  of  me  ?" 

"  Yes  ;  very." 

"  But  I  must  tell  him." 

"Who?" 

"  Richard." 

"Oh  —  of  course,  if  you  think  it  necessary.  But  as  it 
means  nothing,  it  may  be  bothering  him  needlessly." 


250  JUDE   THE   OBSCURE 

"  Well — are  you  sure  you  mean  it  only  as  my  cousin  ?" 

"Absolutely  sure.  I  have  no  feelings  of  love  left  in 
me." 

"That's  news.     How  has  it  come  to  be.''" 

"  I've  seen  Arabella." 

She  winced  at  the  hit ;  then  said,  curiously,  "  When  did 
you  see  her  ?" 

"When  I  was  at  Christminster." 

"  So  she's  come  back  ;  and  you  never  told  me  !  I 
suppose  you  will  live  with  her  now  }" 

"  Of  course — just  as  you  live  with  your  husband." 

She  looked  at  the  window-pots  with  the  geraniums  and 
cactuses,  withered  for  want  of  attention,  and  through  them 
at  the  outer  distance,  till  her  eyes  began  to  grow  moist. 
"  What  is  it  ?"  said  Jude,  in  a  softened  tone. 

"  Why  should  you  be  so  glad  to  go  back  to  her  if — if — 
what  you  used  to  say  to  me  is  still  true  —  I  mean  if  it 
were  true  then  ?  Of  course  it  is  not  now !  How  could 
your  heart  go  back  to  Arabella  so  soon  .-'" 

"  A  special  Providence,  I  suppose,  helped  it  on  its 
way." 

"  Ah — it  isn't  true  !"  she  said,  with  gentle  resentment. 
"  You  are  teasing  me — that's  all — because  you  think  I  am 
not  happy !" 

"  I  don't  know.     I  don't  wish  to  know." 

"  If  I  were  unhappy  it  would  be  my  fault,  my  wicked- 
ness, not  that  I  should  have  a  right  to  dislike  him.  He 
is  considerate  to  me  in  everything;  and  he  is  very  inter- 
esting, from  the  amount  of  general  knowledge  he  has  ac- 
quired by  reading  everything  that  comes  in  his  way.  .  .  . 
Do  you  think,  Jude,  that  a  man  ought  to  marry  a  woman 
his  own  age,  or  one  younger  than  himself — eighteen  years 
— as  I  am  than  he  .''" 

"  It  depends  upon  what  they  feel  for  each  other." 

He  gave  her  no  opportunity  of  self-satisfaction,  and  she 
had  to  go  on  unaided,  which  she  did  in  a  vanquished 
tone,  verging  on  tears  : 


-''  AT   SHASTON  251 

"I  — I  think  I  must  be  equally  honest  with  you  as  you 
have  been  with  me.  Perhaps  you  have  seen  what  it  is  I 
want  to  say— that  though  I  like  Mr.  Phillotson  as  a  friend, 
I  don't  like  him — it  is  a  torture  to  me  to — live  with  him  as 
a  husband  !  There,  now  I  have  let  it  out — I  couldn't  help 
it,  although  I  have  been— pretending  I  am  happy.  Now 
you'll  have  a  contempt  for  me  forever,  I  suppose!"  She 
bent  down  her  face  upon  her  hands  as  they  lay  upon  the 
cloth,  and  silently  sobbed  in  little  jerks  that  made  the 
fragile  three-legged  table  quiver. 

"  I  have  only  been  married  a  month  or  two  !"  she  went 
on,  still  remaining  bent  upon  the  table,  and  talking  into 
her  hands.  "  And  it  is  said  that  what  a  woman  shrinks 
from — in  the  early  days  of  her  marriage — she  shakes  down 
to  with  comfortable  indifference  in  half  a  dozen  years. 
iBut  that  is  much  like  saying  that  the  amputation  of  a 
limb  is  no  affliction,  since  a  person  gets  comfortably  ac- 
customed to  the  use  of  a  wooden  leg  or  arm  in  the  course 
of  timeT^ 

Judecould  hardly  speak,  but  he  said,  "  I  thought 
there  was  something  wrong.  Sue  !  Oh,  I  thought  there 
was  !" 

"But  it  is  not  as  you  think! — there  is  nothing  wrong 
except  my  own  wickedness,  I  suppose  you'd  call  it — a  re- 
pugnance on  my  part,  for  a  reason  I  cannot  disclose,  and 
what  would  not  be  admitted  as  one  by  the  world  in  gen- 
eral !  .  .  .  What  tortures  me  so  much  is  the  necessity  of 
being  responsive  to  this  man  whenever  he  wishes,  good  as 
he  is  morally  ! — the  dreadful  contract  to  feel  in  a  particu- 
lar way,  in  a  matter  whose  essence  is  its  voluntariness ! 
...  I  wish  he  would  beat  me,  or  be  faithless  to  me,  or  do 
some  open  thing  that  I  could  talk  about  as  a  justification 
for  feeling  as  I  do  !  But  he  does  nothing,  except  that  he 
has  grown  a  little  cold  since  he  has  found  out  how  I  feel. 
That's  why  he  didn't  come  to  the  funeral.  .  .  .  Oh,  I  am 
very  miserable  —  I  don't  know  what  to  do  !  .  .  .  Don't 
come  near  me,  Jude,  because  you  mustn't." 


252  JUDE   THE  OBSCURE' 

But  he  had  jumped  up  and  put  his  face  against  hers — 
or  rather  against  her  ear,  her  face  being  inaccessible. 

"  I  told  you  not  to,  Jude  !" 

"I  know  you  did— I  only  wish  to — console  you  !  It  all 
arose  through  my  being  married  before  we  met,  didn't 
it  ?  You  would  have  been  my  wife.  Sue,  wouldn't  you, 
if  it  hadn't  been  for  that  ?" 

Instead  of  replying  she  rose  quickly,  and  saying  she 
was  going  to  walk  to  her  aunt's  grave  in  the  churchyard 
to  recover  herself,  went  out  of  the  house.  Jude  did  not 
follow  her.  Twenty  minutes  later  he  saw  her  cross  the 
village  green  towards  Mrs.  Edlin's,  and  soon  she  sent  a 
little  girl  to  fetch  her  bag,  and  tell  him  she  was  too  tired 
to  see  him  again  that  night. 

In  the  lonely  room  of  his  aunt's  house  Jude  sat  watch- 
ing the  cottage  of  the  Widow  Edlin  as  it  disappeared  be- 
hind the  night  shade.  He  knew  that  Sue  was  sitting 
within  its  walls  equally  lonely  and  disheartened ;  and 
again  questioned  his  devotional  motto  that  all  was  for  the 
best. 

He  retired  to  rest  early,  but  his  sleep  was  fitful  from 
the  sense  that  Sue  was  so  near  at  hand.  At  some  time 
near  two  o'clock,  when  he  was  beginning  to  sleep  more 
soundly,  he  was  aroused  by  a  shrill  squeak  that  had  been 
familiar  enough  to  him  when  he  lived  regularly  at  Mary- 
green.  It  was  the  cry  of  a  rabbit  caught  in  a  gin.  As 
was  the  little  creature's  habit,  it  did  not  soon  repeat  its 
cry ;  and  probably  would  not  do  so  more  than  once  or 
twice,  but  would  remain  bearing  its  torture  till  the  mor- 
row, when  the  trapper  would  come  and  knock  it  on  the 
head. 

He  who  in  his  childhood  had  saved  the  lives  of  the 
earthworms  now  began  to  picture  the  agonies  of  the  rab- 
bit from  its  lacerated  leg.  If  it  were  a  "bad  catch"  by 
the  hind-leg,  the  animal  would  tug  during  the  ensuing 
six  hours  till  the  iron  teeth  of  the  trap  had  stripped  the 
leg-bone  of  its  flesh,  when,  should  a  weak-springed  instru- 


1L^ 

AT   SHASTON  253 

ment  enable  it  to  escape,  it  would  die  in  the  fields  from 
the  mortification  of  the  limb.  If  it  were  a  "  good  catch  " — 
namely,  by  the  fore- leg — the  bone  would  be  broken,  and 
the  limb  nearly  torn  in  two  in  attempts  at  an  impossible 
escape. 

Almost  half  an  hour  passed,  and  the  rabbit  repeat- 
ed its  cry.  Jude  could  rest  no  longer  till  he  had  put  it 
out  of  its  pain  ;  so  dressing  himself  quickly  he  descended, 
and  by  the  light  of  the  moon  went  across  the  green  in 
the  direction  of  the  sound.  He  reached  the  hedge  bor- 
dering the  widow's  garden,  when  he  stood  still.  The 
faint  click  of  the  trap  as  dragged  about  by  the  writhing 
animal  guided  him  now,  and,  reaching  the  spot,  he  struck 
the  rabbit  on  the  back  of  the  neck  with  the  side  of  his 
palm,  and  it  stretched  itself  out  dead. 

He  was  turning  away,  when  he  saw  a  woman  looking 
out  of  the  open  casement  at  a  window  on  the  ground- 
floor  of  the  adjacent  cottage.  "Jude  !"  said  a  voice,  tim- 
idly— Sue's  voice.     "  It  is  you — is  it  not  ?" 

"  Yes,  dear !" 

"  I  haven't  been  able  to  sleep  at  all,  and  then  I  heard 
the  rabbit,  and  couldn't  help  thinking  of  what  it  suffered, 
till  I  felt  I  must  come  down  and  kill  it !  But  I  am  so 
glad  you  got  there  first.  .  .  .  They  ought  not  to  be  allowed 
to  set  these  steel  traps,  ought  they  ?" 

Jude  had  reached  the  window,  which  was  quite  a  low 
one,  so  that  she  was  visible  down  to  her  waist.  She  let 
go  the  casement- stay  and  put  her  hand  upon  his,  her 
moonlit  face  regarding  him  wistfully. 

"  Did  it  keep  you  awake  ?"  he  said. 

"  No  ;  I  was  awake." 

"  How  was  that.^" 

"  Oh,  you  know — now  !  I  know  you,  with  your  relig- 
ious doctrines,  think  that  a  married  woman  in  trouble 
of  a  kind  like  mine  commits  a  mortal  sin  in  making  a 
man  the  confidant  of  it,  as  I  did  you.     I  wish  I  hadn't, 


now 


254  JUDE  THE  OBSCURE 

"  Don't  vvish  it,  dear,"  he  said.  "  That  may  have  been 
my  view,  but  my  doctrines  and  I  begin  to  part  company." 

"I  knew  it — I  knew  it!  And  that's  why  I  vowed  I 
wouldn't  disturb  your  beliefs.  But — I  am  so  glad  to  see 
you  !— and,  oh,  I  didn't  mean  to  see  you  again,  now  the 
last  tie  between  us,  Aunt  Drusilla,  is  dead  !" 

Jude  seized  her  hand  and  kissed  it.    "  There  is  a  strong- 
er one  left !"  he  said.    "  I'll  never  care  about  my  doctrines 
1    or  my  religion  any  more  !     Let  them  go !     Let  me  help 
|_YOu,  even  if  I  do  love  you,  and  even  if  you  .  '.  ." 

"Don't  say  it!— I  know  what  you  mean;  but  I  can't 
admit  so  much  as  that.  There !  Guess  what  you  like, 
but  don't  press  me  to  answer  questions !" 

"  I  wish  you  were  happy,  whatever  I  may  be !" 

"  I  cant  be  !  So  few  could  enter  into  my  feeling — they 
would  say  'twas  my  fanciful  fastidiousness,  or  something 
of  that  sort,  and  condemn  me.  ...  It  is  none  of  the  nat- 
ural tragedies  of  love  that's  love's  usual  tragedy  in  civil- 
ized life,  but  a  tragedy  artificially  manufactured  for  peo- 
ple who  in  a  natural  state  would  find  relief  in  parting  ! 
...  It  would  have  been  wrong,  perhaps,  for  me  to  tell  my 
distress  to  you,  if  I  had  been  able  to  tell  it  to  anybody 
else.  But  I  have  nobody.  And  I  must  tell  somebody! 
Jude,  before  I  married  him  I  had  never  thought  out  fully 
what  marriage  meant,  even  though  I  knew.  It  was  idiotic 
of  me  —  there  is  no  excuse.  I  was  old  enough,  and  I 
thought  I  was  very  experienced.  So  I  rushed  on,  when  I 
had  got  into  that  Training-School  scrape,  with  all  the 
cocksureness  of  the  fool  that  I  was !  .  .  .  I  am  certain  one 
ought  to  be  allowed  to  undo  what  one  has  done  so  igno- 
rantly !  I  dare  say  it  happens  to  lots  of  women ;  only 
they  submit,  and  I  kick.  .  .  .  When  people  of  a  later  age 
look  back  upon  the  barbarous  customs  and  superstitions 
of  the  times  that  we  have  the  unhappiness  to  live  in, 
what  will  they  say  !" 

"  You  are  very  bitter,  darling  Sue  !  How  I  wish  —  I 
wish—" 


"  '     IIIKP    I 


JUDF.  !     SAID    A    VOICE,   TIMIDI.V 


AT   SHASTON  255 

"  You  must  go  in  now  !" 

In  a  moment  of  impulse  she  bent  over  the  sill,  and  laid 
her  face  upon  his  hair,  weeping,  and  then,  imprinting  a 
scarcely  perceptible  little  kiss  upon  the  top  of  his  head, 
withdrawing  quickly,  so  that  he  could  not  put  his  arms 
round  her,  as  he  unquestionably  would  have  otherwise 
done,  she  shut  the  casement,  and  he  returned  to  his 
cottage. 


Ill 

Sue's  distressful  confession  recurred  to  Jude's  mind 
all  the  night  as  being  a  sorrow  indeed. 

The  morning  after,  when  it  was  time  for  her  to  go,  the 
neighbors  saw  her  companion  and  herself  disappearing 
on  foot  down  the  hill-path  which  led  into  the  lonely  road 
to  Alfredston.  An  hour  passed  before  he  returned  along 
the  same  route,  and  in  iiis  face  there  was  a  look  of  exalta- 
tion not  unmixed  with  recklessness.  An  incident  had 
occurred. 

They  had  stood  parting  in  the  silent  highway,  and 
their  tense  and  passionate  moods  had  led  to  bewildered 
inquiries  of  each  other  on  how  far  their  intimacy  ought 
to  go ;  till  they  had  almost  quarrelled,  and  she  had  said 
tearfully  that  it  was  hardly  proper  of  him  as  a  parson  in 
embryo  to  think  of  such  a  thing  as  kissing  her  even  in 
farewell,  as  he  now  wished  to  do.  Then  she  had  con- 
ceded that  the  fact  of  the  kiss  would  be  nothing;  all 
would  depend  upon  the  spirit  of  it.  If  given  in  the 
spirit  of  a  cousin  and  a  friend,  she  saw  no  objection  ;  if 
in  the  spirit  of  a  lover,  she  could  not  permit  it.  "  Will 
you  swear  that  it  will  not  be  in  that  spirit.''"  she  had 
said. 

No ;  he  would  not.  And  then  they  had  turned  from 
each  other  in  estrangement,  and  gone  their  sev^eral  ways, 
till  at  a  distance  of  twenty  or  thirty  yards  both  had  looked 
round  simultaneously.  That  look  behind  was  fatal  to  the 
reserve  hitherto  more  or  less  maintained.  They  had 
quickly  run  back,  and  met,  and  embracing  most  unpre- 
meditatedly,  kissed  each  other.     When  they  parted  for 


AT   SHASTON  257 

good  it  was  with  flushed  cheeks  on  her  side,  and  a  beat- 
ing heart  on  his. 

The  kiss  was  a  turning-point  in  Jude's  career.  Back 
again  in  the  cottage,  and  left  to  reflection,  he  saw  one 
thing :  that  though  his  kiss  with  that  aerial  being  had 
seemed  the  purest  moment  of  his  faultful  life,  as  long  as 
he  nourished  this  unlicensed  tenderness  it  was  glaringly') 
inconsistent  for  him  to  pursue  the  idea  of  becoming  the., 
soldier  and  servant  of  a  religion  in  which  sexual  love  was! 
regarded  as  at  its  best  a  frailty  and  at  its  worst  damna- 
tion. What  Sue  had  said  in  warmth  was  really  the 
cold  truth.  When  to  defend  his  affection  tooth  and  nail, 
to  persist  with  headlong  force  in  impassioned  attentions 
to  her,  was  all  he  thought  of,  he  was  condemned  ipso 
facto  as  a  professor  of  the  accepted  school  of  morals. 
He  was  as  unfit,  obviously,  by  nature,  as  he  had  been  by 
social  position,  to  fill  the  part  of  a  propounder  of  ac- 
credited dogma. 

Strange  that  his  first  aspiration — towards  academical 
proficiency — had  been  checked  by  a  woman,  and  that  his 
second  aspiration— towards  apostleship— had  also  been 
checked  by  a  woman.  "  Is  it,"  he  said,  "  that  the  women 
are  to  blame  ;  or  is  it  the  artificial  system  of  things,  under 
which  the  normal  sex-impulses  are  turacd..into  devilish 
dom^siic-gifw  and  springes  to  noose  and  hold  back  those 
who  want  to  progress  ?" 

It  had  been  his  standing  desire  to  become  a  prophet, 
however  humble,  to  his  struggling  fellow-creatures,  with- 
out any  thought  of  personal  gain.  Yet  with  a  wife  living 
away  from  him  with  another  husband,  and  himself  in 
love  erratically,  the  loved  one's  revolt  against  her  state 
being  possibly  on  his  account,  he  had  sunk  to  be  barely 
respectable  according  to  regulation  views. 

It  was  not  for  him  to  consider  further;  he  had  only 
to  confront  the  obvious,  which  was  that  he  had  made 
himself  quite  an  impostor  as  a  law-abiding  religious 
teacher. 

>7 


258  JUDE  THE  OBSCURE 

At  dusk  that  evening  he  went  into  the  garden  and  dug 
a  shallow  hole,  to  which  he  brought  out  all  the  theologi- 
cal and  ethical  works  that  he  possessed.  He  knew  that, 
in  this  country  of  true  believers,  most  of  them  were  not 
saleable  at  a  much  higher  price  than  waste-paper  value, 
and  preferred  to  get  rid  of  them  in  his  own  way,  even  if 
he  should  sacrifice  a  little  money  to  the  sentiment  of  thus 
destroying  them.  Lighting  some  loose  pamphlets  to  be- 
gin with,  he  cut  the  volumes  into  pieces  as  well  as  he 
could,  and  with  a  three  -  pronged  fork  shook  them  over 
the  flames.  They  kindled,  and  lighted  up  the  back  of 
the  house,  and  pig-sty,  and  his  own  face,  till  they  were 
more  or  less  consumed. 

Though  he  was  almost  a  stranger  here  now,  passing 
cottagers  talked  to  him  over  the  garden  hedge. 

"  Burning  up  your  awld  aunt's  rubbidge,  I  suppose  .■* 
Aye;  a  lot  gets  heaped  up  in  nooks  and  corners  when 
you've  lived  eighty  years  in  one  house." 

It  was  nearly  one  o'clock  in  the  morning  before  the 
leaves,  covers,  and  binding  of  Jeremy  Taylor,  Butler, 
Doddridge,  Paley,  Pusey,  Newman,  and  the  rest  had  gone 
to  ashes;  but  the  night  was  quiet,  and  as  he  turned  and 
turned  the  paper  shreds  with  the  fork,  the  sense  of  being 
no  longer  a  hypocrite  to  himself  afforded  a  relief  to  his 
mind  which  gave  him  calm.  He  might  go  on  believing 
as  before,  but  he  professed  nothing,  and  no  longer  owned 
and  exhibited  engines  of  faith  which,  as  their  proprietor, 
he  might  naturally  be  supposed  to  exercise  on  himself 
first  of  all.  In  his  passion  for  Sue  he  could  now  stand  as 
an  ordinary  sinner,  and  not  as  a  whited  sepulchre. 

Meanwhile  Sue,  after  parting  from  him  earlier  in  the 
day,  had  gone  along  to  the  station,  with  tears  in  her  eyes 
for  having  run  back  and  let  him  kiss  her.  Jude  ought 
not  to  have  pretended  that  he  was  not  a  lover,  and  made 
her  give  way  to  an  impulse  to  act  unconventionally,  if  not 
wrongly.  She  was  inclined  to  call  it  the  latter  ;  for  Sue's 
logic   was  extraordinarily  compounded,  and   seemed   to 


AT   SHASTON  259 

maintain  that  before  a  thing  was  done  it  might  be  right 
to  do,  but  that  being  done  it  became  wrong;  or,  in  other 
words,  that  things  which  were  right  in  theory  were  wrong 
in  practice. 

"  I  have  been  too  weak,  I  think  !"  she  jerked  out  as  she 
pranced  on,  shaking  down  tear-drops  now  and  then.  "  It 
was  burning,  Hke  a  lover's — oh,  it  was  !  And  I  won't 
write  to  him  any  more — or,  at  least,  for  a  long  time,  to  im- 
press him  with  my  dignity !  And  I  hope  it  will  hurt  him 
very  much — expecting  a  letter  to-morrow  morning,  and 
the  next,  and  the  next,  and  no  letter  coming.  He'll  suffer 
then  with  suspense — won't  he,  that's  all ! — and  I  am  very 
glad  of  it !"  Tears  of  pity  for  Jude's  approaching  suffer- 
ings at  her  hands  mingled  with  those  which  had  surged 
up  in  pity  for  herself. 

Then  the  slim  little  wife  of  a  husband  whose  person 
was  disagreeable  to  her,  the  ethereal,  fine-nerved,  sensi- 
tive girl,  quite  unfitted  by  temperament  and  instinct  to 
fulfil  the  conditions  of  the  matrimonial  relation  with  Phil- 
lotson,  possibly  with  any  man,  walked  fitfully  along,  and 
panted,  and  brought  weariness  into  her  eyes  by  gazing 
and  worrying  hopelessly. 

Phillotson  met  her  at  the  arrival  station,  and,  seeing 
that  she  was  troubled,  thought  it  must  be  owing  to  the 
depressing  effect  of  her  aunt's  death  and  funeral.  He 
began  telling  her  of  his  day's  doings,  and  how  his  friend 
Gillingham,  a  neighboring  school- master  whom  he  had 
not  seen  for  years,  had  called  upon  him.  While  ascend- 
ing to  the  town,  seated  on  the  top  of  the  omnibus  beside 
him,  she  said,  suddenly,  and  with  an  air  of  self -chastise- 
ment, regarding  the  white  road  and  its  bordering  bushes 
of  hazel : 

"Richard,  I  let  Mr.  Fawley  hold  my  hand.  I  don't 
know  whether  you  think  it  wrong." 

He,  waking  apparently  from  thoughts  of  far  different 
mould,  said,  vaguely,  "  Oh,  did  you  ?  What  did  you  do 
that  for  .5" 


26o  JUDE  THE  OBSCURE 

"  I  don't  know.     He  wanted  to,  and  I  let  him." 

"  I  hope  it  pleased  him.  I  should  think  it  was  hardly 
a  novelty." 

They  lapsed  into  silence.  Had  this  been  a  case  in  the 
court  of  an  omniscient  judge  he  might  have  entered  on 
his  notes  the  curious  fact  that  Sue  had  placed  the  minor 
for  the  major  indiscretion,  and  had  not  said  a  word  about 
the  kiss. 

After  tea  that  evening  Phillotson  sat  balancing  the 
school  registers.  She  remained  in  an  unusually  silent, 
tense,  and  restless  condition,  and  at  last,  saying  she  was 
tired,  went  to  bed  early.  When  Phillotson  arrived  up- 
stairs, weary  with  the  drudgery  of  the  attendance-num- 
bers, it  was  a  quarter  to  twelve  o'clock.  Entering  their 
chamber,  which  by  day  commanded  a  view  of  some  thirty 
or  forty  miles  over  the  Vale  of  Blackmoor,  and  even  into 
Outer  Wessex,  he  went  to  the  window,  and,  pressing  his 
face  against  the  pane,  gazed  with  hard-breathing  fi.xity 
into  the  mysterious  darkness  which  now  covered  the  far- 
reaching  scene.  He  was  mUsing.  "  I  think,"  he  said  at 
last,  without  turning  his  head,  "that  I  must  get  the  Com- 
mittee to  change  the  school  -  stationer.  All  the  copy- 
books are  sent  wrong  this  time." 

There  was  no  reply.  Thinking  Sue  was  dozing,  he 
went  on : 

"And  there  must  be  a  rearrangement  of  that  ventilator 
in  the  class-room.  The  wind  blows  down  upon  my  head 
unmercifully,  and  gives  me  the  earache." 

As  the  silence  seemed  more  absolute  than  ordinarily, 
he  turned  round.  The  heavy,  gloomy  oak  wainscot, 
which  extended  over  the  walls  up -stairs  and  down  in 
the  dilapidated  "  Old-Grove's  House,"  and  the  massive 
chimney-piece  reaching  to  the  ceiling,  stood  in  odd  con- 
trast to  the  new  and  shining  brass  bedstead,  and  the  new 
suite  of  birch  furniture  that  he  had  bought  for  her,  the 
two  styles  seeming  to  nod  to  each  other  across  three 
centuries  upon  the  shaking  floor. 


AT   SHASTON 


261 


"  Soo !"  he  said  (this  being  the  way  in  which  he  pro- 
nounced her  name). 

She  was  not  in  the  bed,  though  she  had  apparently 
been  there— the  clothes  on  her  side  being  flung  back. 
Thinking  she  might  have  forgotten  some  kitchen  detail, 
and  gone  down-stairs  for  a  moment  to  see  to  it,  he  pulled 
off  his  coat  and  idled  quietly  enough  for  a  few  minutes, 
when,  finding  she  did  not  come,  he  went  out  upon  the 
landing,  candle  in  hand,  and  said  again,  "  Soo  !" 

"  Yes  !"  came  back  to  him  in  her  voice,  from  the  distant 
kitchen  quarter. 

"  What  are  you  doing  down  there  at  midnight— tiring 
yourself  out  for  nothing  !" 

"  I  am  not  sleepy ;  I  am  reading ;  and  there  is  a  larger 
fire  here." 

He  went  to  bed.  Some  time  in  the  night  he  awoke. 
She  was  not  there,  even  now.  Lighting  a  candle,  he 
hastily  stepped  out  upon  the  landing,  and  again  called 
her  name. 

She  answered  "  Yes  !"  as  before ;  but  the  tones  were 
small  and  confined,  and  whence  they  came  he  could  not 
at  first  understand.  Under  the  staircase  was  a  large 
clothes-closet,  without  a  window  ;  they  seemed  to  come 
from  it.  The  door  was  shut,  but  there  was  no  lock  or 
other  fastening.  Phillotson,  alarmed,  went  towards  it, 
wondering  if  she  had  suddenly  become  deranged. 

"  What  are  you  doing  in  there  ?"  he  asked. 

"  Not  to  disturb  you  I  came  here,  as  it  was  so  late." 

"  But  there's  no  bed,  is  there  }  And  no  ventilation  ! 
Why,  you'll  be  suffocated  if  you  stay  all  night !" 

"  Oh  no,  I  think  not.     Don't  trouble  about  me." 

"  But—"  Phillotson  seized  the  knob  and  pulled  at  the 
door.  She  had  fastened  it  inside  with  a  piece  of  string, 
which  broke  at  his  pull.  There  being  no  bedstead, 
she  had  flung  down  some  rugs  and  made  a  little  nest  for 
herself  in  the  very  cramped  quarters  the  closet  af- 
forded. 


262  JUDE  THE  OBSCURE 

When  he  looked  in  upon  her  she  sprang  out  of  her  lair, 
trembling. 

"  You  ought  not  to  have  pulled  open  the  door !"  she 
cried,  excitedly.  "  It  is  not  becoming  in  you  !  Oh,  will 
you  go  away  ;  please,  will  you  !" 

She  looked  so  pitiful  and  pleading  in  her  white  night- 
gown against  the  shadowy  lumber-hole  that  he  was  quite 
worried.  She  continued  to  beseech  him  not  to  disturb 
her. 

He  said  :  "  I've  been  kind  to  you,  and  given  you  every 
liberty ;  and  it  is  monstrous  that  you  should  feel  in  this 
way !" 

"  Yes,"  said  she,  weeping.  "  I  know  that !  It  is  wrong 
and  wicked  of  me,  I  suppose  I  I  am  very  sorry.  But  it 
is  not  I  altogether  that  am  to  blame  !" 

"  Who  is,  then  ?     Am  I  ?" 

"  No — I  don't  know!  The  universe,  I  suppose — things 
in  general,  because  they  are  so  horrid  and  cruel  I" 

"  Well,  it  is  no  use  talking  like  that.  Making  a  man's 
house  so  unseemly  at  this  time  o'  night !  Eliza  will  hear, 
if  we  don't  mind."  (He  meant  the  servant.)  "  Just  think 
if  either  of  the  parsons  in  this  town  was  to  see  us  now! 
I  hate  such  eccentricities,  Sue.  There's  no  order  or  reg- 
ularity in  your  sentiments  !  .  .  .  But  I  won't  intrude  on 
you  further ;  only  I  would  advise  you  not  to  shut  the 
door  too  tight,  or  I  shall  find  you  stifled  to-morrow." 

On  rising  the  next  morning  he  immediately  looked  into 
the  closet,  but  Sue  had  already  gone  down-stairs.  There 
was  a  little  nest  where  she  had  lain,  and  spiders'  webs 
hung  overhead.  "  What  must  a  woman's  aversion  be  when 
it  is  stronger  than  her  fear  of  spiders !"  he  said,  bitterly. 

He  found  her  sitting  at  the  breakfast -table,  and  the 
meal  began  almost  in  silence,  the  burghers  walking  past 
upon  the  pavement — or  rather  roadway,  pavements  being 
scarce  here — which  was  two  or  three  feet  above  the  level 
of  the  parlor  floor.  They  nodded  down  to  the  happy 
couple  their  morning  greetings  as  they  went  on. 


AT   SHASTON  263 

"  Richard,"  she  said,  all  at  once,  "  would  you  mind  my 
living  away  from  you  ?" 

"  Away  from  me  ?  Why,  that's  what  you  were  doing 
when  I  married  you.  What,  then,  was  the  meaning  of 
marrying  at  all  ?" 

''You  wouldn't  like  me  any  the  better  for  telling  you." 

"  I  don't  object  to  know." 

"  Because  I  thought  I  could  do  nothing  else.  You  had 
got  my  promise  a  long  time  before  that,  remember.  Then, 
as  time  went  on,  I  regretted  I  had  promised  you,  and  was 
trying  to  see  an  honorable  way  to  break  it  off.  But  as  I 
couldn't,  I  became  rather  reckless  and  careless  about  the 
conventions.  Then  you  know  what  was  said,  and  how  I 
was  turned  out  of  the  Training- School  you  had  taken 
such  time  and  trouble  to  prepare  me  for  and  get  me  into ; 
and  this  frightened  me,  and  it  seemed  then  that  the  one 
thing  I  could  do  would  be  to  let  the  engagement  stand. 
Of  course,  I,  of  all  people,  ought  not  to  have  cared  what 
was  said,  for  it  was  just  what  I  fancied  I  never  did  care 
for.  But  I  was  a  coward — as  so  many  women  are — and 
my  theoretic  unconventionality  broke  down.  If  that  had 
not  entered  into  the  case  it  would  have  been  better  to 
have  hurt  your  feelings  once  for  all  then,  than  to  marry 
you  and  hurt  them  all  my  life  after.  .  .  .  And  you  were  so 
generous  in  never  giving  credit  for  a  moment  to  the 
rumor." 

"  I  am  bound  in  honesty  to  tell  you  that  I  weighed  its 
probability,  and  inquired  of  your  cousin  about  it." 

"Ah!"  she  said, with  pained  surprise. 

"  I  didn't  doubt  you." 

"  But  you  inquired  !" 

•'  I  took  his  word." 

Her  eyes  had  filled.  "  He  wouldn't  have  inquired !" 
she  said.  "  But  you  haven't  answered  me.  Will  you  let 
me  go  away  ?  I  know  how  irregular  it  is  of  me  to  ask 
it— " 

"  It  is  irregular." 


264  JUDE  THE  OBSCURE 

"  But  I  do  ask  it !  Domestic  laws  should  be  made  ac- 
cording to  temperaments,  which  should  be  classified.  If 
people  are  at  all  peculiar  in  character  they  have  to  suffer 
from  the  very  rules  that  produce  comfort  in  others ! 
.  .  .  Will  you  let  me?" 

"  But  we  married — " 

"  What  is  the  use  of  thinking  of  laws  and  ordinances," 
she  burst  out,  "  if  they  make  you  miserable  when  you 
know  you  are  committing  no  sin  ?" 

"But  you  are  committing  a  sin  in  not  liking  me  !" 

"  I  do  like  you  !  But  I  didn't  reflect  it  would  be — that 
it  would  be  so  much  more  than  that.  .  .  .  For  a  man  and 
woman  to  live  on  intimate  terms  when  one  feels  as  I  do 
is  adultery,  in  any  circumstances,  however  legal.  There 
— I've  said  it !  .  .  .  Will  you  let  me,  Richard  ?" 

"  You  distress  me,  Susanna,  by  such  importunity  I" 

"Why  can't  we  agree  to  free  each  other?  We  made 
the  compact,  and  surely  we  can  cancel  it — not  legally,  of 
course,  but  we  can  morally,  especially  as  no  new  interests, 
in  the  shape  of  children,  have  arisen  to  be  looked  after. 
Then  we  might  be  friends,  and  meet  without  pain  to 
either  Oh,  Richard,  be  my  friend  and  have  pity !  We 
shall  both  be  dead  in  a  few  years,  and  then  what  will  it 
matter  to  anybody  that  you  relieved  me  from  constraint 
for  a  little  while?  I  dare  say  you  think  me  eccentric,  or 
super-sensitive,  or  something  absurd.  Well — why  should 
I  suffer  for  what  I  was  born  to  be,  if  it  doesn't  hurt  other 
people  ?" 

"  But  it  does — it  hurts  me!    And  you  vowed  to  love  me." 

"Yes  —  that's  it!  I  am  in  the  wrong.  I  always  am! 
It  is  as  culpable  to  bind  yourself  to  love  always  as  to  be- 
lieve a  creed  always,  and  as  silly  as  to  vow  always  to  like 
a  particular  food  or  drink  !" 

"  And  do  you  mean,  by  living  away  from  me,  living  by 
yourself?" 

"  Well,  if  you  insisted,  yes.  But  I  meant  living  with 
Jude." 


AT   SHASTON  265 

"  As  his  wife  ?" 

"  As  I  choose." 

Phillotson  writhed. 

Sue  continued:  "She,  or  he, 'who  lets  the  world,  or 
his  own  portion  of  it,  choose  his  plan  of  life  for  him,  has 
no  need  of  any  other  faculty  than  the  ape-like  one  of  im- 
itation.' J.  S.  Mill's  words,  those  are.  Why  can't  you 
act  upon  them  ?     I  wish  to,  always." 

"  What  do  I  care  about  J.  S.  Mill !"  moaned  he.  "I  only 
want  to  lead  a  quiet  life !  Do  you  mind  my  saying  that  I 
have  guessed  what  never  once  occurred  to  me  before  our 
marriage — that  you  were  in  lov^e,  and  are  in  love,  with 
Jude  Fawley!" 

"You  may  go  on  guessing  that  I  am,  since  you  have  be- 
gun. But  do  you  suppose  that  if  I  had  been  I  should 
have  asked  you  to  let  me  go  and  live  with  him  }" 

The  ringing  of  the  school-bell  saved  Phillotson  from 
the  necessity  of  replying  at  present  to  what  apparently 
did  not  strike  him  as  being  such  a  convincing  argmnentiDii 
ad  vcrecwidiam  as  she,  in  her  loss  of  courage  at  the  last 
moment,  meant  it  to  appear.  She  was  beginning  to  be  so 
puzzling  and  unpredicable  that  he  was  ready  to  throw  in 
with  her  other  little  peculiarities  the  extremest  request 
which  a  wife  could  make. 

They  proceeded  to  the  schools  that  morning  as  usual, 
Sue  entering  the  class-room,  where  he  could  see  the  back 
of  her  head  through  the  glass  partition  whenever  he  turned 
his  eyes  that  way.  As  he  went  on  giving  and  hearing 
lessons  his  forehead  and  eyebrows  twitched  from  concen- 
trated agitation  of  thought ;  till  at  length  he  tore  a  scrap 
from  a  sheet  of  scribbling  paper  and  wrote  : 

"Your  request  prevents  my  attending  to  work  at  all.  I  don't 
know  what  I  am  doing  !     Was  it  seriously  made  ?" 

He  folded  the  piece  of  paper  very  small,  and  gave  it  to 
a  little  boy  to  take  to  Sue.     The  child  toddled  off  into 


266  JUDE  THE   OBSCURE 

the  class-room.  Phillotson  saw  his  wife  turn  and  take 
the  note,  and  the  bend  of  her  pretty  head  as  she  read  it, 
her  lips  slightly  crisped,  to  prevent  undue  expression  un- 
der fire  of  so  many  young  eyes.  He  could  not  see  her 
hands,  but  she  changed  her  position,  and  soon  the  child 
returned,  bringing  nothing  in  reply.  In  a  few  minutes, 
however,  one  of  Sue's  class  appeared,  with  a  little  note 
similar  to  his  own.  These  words  only  were  pencilled 
therein: 

"  I  am  sincerely  sorry  to  say  that  it  was  seriously  made." 

Phillotson  looked  more  disturbed  than  before,  and  the 
meeting-place  of  his  brows  twitched  again.  In  ten  min- 
utes he  called  up  the  child  he  had  just  sent  to  her,  and 
despatched  another  missive : 

"  God  knows  I  don't  want  to  thwart  you  in  any  reasonable  way. 
My  whole  thought  is  to  make  you  comfortable  and  happy.  But 
I  cannot  agree  to  such  a  preposterous  notion  as  your  going  to 
live  with  your  lover.  You  woukl  lose  everybody's  respect  and  re- 
gard ;  and  so  should  I!" 

After  an  interval  a  similar  part  was  enacted  in  the 
class-room,  and  an  answer  came  : 

"I  know  you  mean  my  good.  But  I  don't  want  to  be  re- 
spectable. To  produce  '  Human  development  in  its  richest  di- 
versity' (to  quote  Humboldt)  is  to  my  mind  far  above  respecta- 
bility. No  doubt  my  tastes  are  low  —  in  your  view — hopelessly 
low!  If  you  won't  let  me  go  to  him,  will  you  grant  me  this  one 
request — allow  me  to  live  in  your  house  in  a  separate  way?" 

To  this  he  returned  no  answer. 
She  wrote  again  : 

"I  know  what  you  think.  But  cannot  you  have  pity  on  me  ? 
1  beg  you  to;  I  implore  you  to  be  merciful!  I  would  not  ask  if 
I  were  not  almost  compelled  by  m  liat   I  can't  bear  !     No  poor 


AT   SHASTON  267 

woman  has  ever  wished  more  than  I  that  Eve  had  not  fallen,  so 
that  (as  the  primitive  Christians  believed)  some  harmless  mode  of 
vegetation  might  have  peopled  Paradise.  But  I  won't  trifle!  Be 
kind  to  me — even  though  I  have  not  been  kind  to  you  I  I  will  go 
away,  go  abroad,  anywhere,  and  never  trouble  you." 

Nearly  an  hour  passed,  and  then  he  returned  an  answer  ; 

"  I  do  not  wish  to  pain  you.  How  well  you  knotu  I  don't! 
Give  me  a  little  time.  I  am  disposed  to  agree  to  your  last  re- 
quest." 

One  line  from  her  : 

"  Thank  you  from  my  heart,  Richard.  I  do  not  deserve  your 
kindness." 

All  day  Phillotson  bent  a  dazed  regard  upon  her 
through  the  glazed  partition  ;  and  he  felt  as  lonely  as 
when  he  had  not  known  her. 

But  he  was  as  good  as  his  word,  and  consented  to  her 
living  apart  in  the  house.  At  first,  when  they  met  at 
meals,  she  had  seemed  more  composed  under  the  new  ar- 
rangement ;  but  the  irksomeness  of  their  position  worked 
on  her  temperament,  and  the  fibres  of  her  nature  seemed 
strained  like  harp-strings.  She  talked  vaguely  and  in- 
discriminately to  prevent  his  talking  pertinently. 


IV 

Phillotson  was  sitting  up  late,  as  was  often  his  cus- 
tom, trying  to  get  together  the  materials  for  his  long- 
neglected  hobby  of  Roman  antiquities.  For  the  first  time 
since  reviving  the  subject  he  felt  a  return  of  his  old  in- 
terest in  it.  He  forgot  time  and  place,  and  when  he  re- 
membered himself  and  ascended  to  rest  it  was  nearly  two 
o'clock. 

His  preoccupation  was  such  that,  though  he  now  slept 
on  the  other  side  of  the  house,  he  mechanically  went  to 
the  room  that  he  and  his  wife  had  occupied  when  he  first 
became  a  tenant  of  Old-Grove's  Place,  which,  since  his 
differences  with  Sue,  had  been  hers  exclusively.  He  en- 
tered, and  unconsciously  began  to  undress. 

There  was  a  cry  from  the  bed,  and  a  quick  movement. 
Before  the  school-master  had  realized  where  he  was  he 
perceived  Sue,  starting  up  half  awake,  staring  wildly, 
and  springing  out  upon  the  floor  on  the  side  away  from 
him,  which  was  towards  the  window.  This  was  some- 
what hidden  by  the  canopy  of  the  bedstead,  and  in  a  mo- 
ment he  heard  her  flinging  up  the  sash.  Before  he  had 
thought  that  she  meant  to  do  more  than  get  air  she  had 
mounted  upon  the  sill  and  leaped  out.  She  disappeared 
in  the  darkness,  and  he  heard  her  fall  below. 

Phillotson,  horrified,  ran  down  -  stairs,  striking  himself 
sharply  against  the  newel  in  his  haste.  Opening  the 
heavy  door,  he  ascended  the  two  or  three  steps  to  the 
level  of  the  ground,  and  there,  on  the  gravel  before  him, 
lay  a  white  heap.  Phillotson  seized  it  in  his  arms,  and 
bringing  Sue  into  the  hall  seated  her  on  a  chair,  where 


SL,- 


o 

2 

H 
P) 
O 
> 

t-i 


a 

•-3 
ft 


^ 


AT   SHASTON  269 

he  gazed  at  her  by  the  flapping  light  of  the  candle,  which 
he  had  set  down  in  the  draught  on  the  bottom  stair. 

She  had  certainly  not  broken  her  neck.  She  looked 
at  him  with  eyes  that  seemed  not  to  take  him  in ;  and 
though  not  particularly  large  in  general,  they  appeared  so 
now.  She  pressed  her  side  and  rubbed  her  arm,  as  if 
conscious  of  pain  ;  then  stood  up,  averting  her  face,  in 
evident  distress,  at  his  gaze. 

"Thank  God,  you  are  not  killed! — though  it's  not  for 
want  of  trying — nor  much  hurt,  I  hope?" 

Her  fall,  in  fact,  had  not  been  a  serious  one,  probably 
owing  to  the  lowness  of  the  old  rooms  and  to  the  high 
level  of  the  ground  outside.  Beyond  a  scraped  elbow 
and  a  blow  in  the  side,  she  had  apparently  incurred  little 
harm. 

"  I  was  asleep,  I  think,"  she  began,  her  pale  face  still 
turned  away  from  him,  "and  something  frightened  me 
— a  terrible  dream — I  thought  I  saw  you — "  The  actual 
circumstances  seemed  to  come  back  to  her,  and  she  was 
silent. 

Her  cloak  was  hanging  at  the  back  of  the  door,  and 
the  wretched  Phillotson  flung  it  round  her.  "  Shall  I 
help  you  up -stairs?"  he  asked,  drearily;  for  the  signifi- 
cance of  all  this  sickened  him  of  himself  and  of  every- 
thing. 

"  No,  thank  you,  Richard.  I  am  very  little  hurt.  I  can 
walk." 

"  You  ought  to  lock  your  door,"  he  mechanically  said, 
as  if  lecturing  in  school.  "  Then  no  one  could  intrude, 
even  by  accident. 

"  I  have  tried — it  won't  lock.  All  the  doors  are  out  of 
order." 

The  aspect  of  things  was  not  improved  by  her  admis- 
sion. She  ascended  the  staircase  slowly,  the  waving  light 
of  the  candle  shining  on  her.  Phillotson  did  not  ap- 
proach her,  or  attempt  to  ascend  himself  till  he  heard  her 
enter  her  room.    Then  he  fastened  up  the  front  door,  and. 


270  JUDE  THE  OBSCURE 

returning,  sat  down  on  the  lower  stairs,  holding  the  newel 
with  one  hand,  and  bowing  his  face  into  the  other.  Thus 
he  remained  for  a  long,  long  time — a  pitiable  object  enough 
to  one  who  had  seen  him  ;  till,  raising  his  head,  and  sigh- 
ing a  sigh  which  seemed  to  say  that  the  business  of  his 
life  must  be  carried  on,  whether  he  had  a  wife  or  no,  he 
took  the  candle  and  went  up-stairs  to  his  lonely  room  on 
the  other  side  of  the  landing. 

No  further  incident  touching  the  matter  between  them 
occurred  till  the  following  evening,  when,  immediately 
school  was  over,  Phillotson  walked  out  of  Shaston,  saying 
he  required  no  tea,  and  not  informing  Sue  where  he  was 
going.  He  descended  from  the  town  level  by  a  steep 
road  in  a  northwesterly  direction,  and  continued  to  move 
downward  till  the  soil  changed  from  its  white  dryness  to 
a  tough  brown  clay.  He  was  now  on  the  low  alluvial 
beds, 

"Where  Duncliffe  is  the  traveller's  mark, 
And  cloty  Stour's  a-rolling." 

More  than  once  he  looked  back  in  the  increasing  ob- 
scurity of  evening.  Against  the  sky  was  Shaston,  dimly 
visible 

"On  the  gray-topp'd  height 
Of  Paladore,  as  pale  day  wore 
Away  .  .    "* 

The  new-lit  lights  from  its  windows  burned  with  a  steady 
shine  as  if  watching  him,  one  of  which  windows  was  his 
own.  Above  it  he  could  just  discern  the  pinnacled  tower 
of  Trinity  Church.  The  air  down  here,  tempered  by  the 
thick  damp  bed  of  tenacious  clay,  was  not  as  it  had  been 
above,  but  soft  and  relaxing,  so  that  when  he  had  walked 
a  mile  or  two  he  was  obliged  to  wipe  his  face  with  his 
handkerchief. ' 

*  William  Barnes. 


AT   SH ASTON  27 1 

Leaving  Dunclifife  Hill  on  the  left,  he  proceeded  with- 
out hesitation  through  the  shade,  as  a  man  goes  on, 
night  or  day,  in  a  district  over  which  he  has  played  as  a 
boy.  He  had  walked  altogether  about  four  and  a  half 
miles  when  he  crossed  the  tributary  of  the  Stour,  and 
reached  Leddenton — a  little  town  of  three  or  four  thou- 
sand inhabitants — where  he  went  on  to  the  boys'  school, 
and  knocked  at  the  door  of  the  master's  residence. 

A  boy  pupil-teacher  opened  it,  and  to  Phillotson's  in- 
quiry if  Mr.  Gillingham  was  at  home,  replied  that  he  was, 
going  at  once  off  to  his  own  house,  and  leaving  Phillotson 
to  find  his  way  in  as  he  could.  He  discovered  his  friend 
putting  away  some  books  from  which  he  had  been  giving 
evening  lessons.  The  light  of  the  paraffin  lamp  fell  on 
Phillotson's  face — pale  and  wretched  by  contrast  with  his 
friend's,  who  had  a  cool,  practical  look.  They  had  been 
schoolmates  in  boyhood,  and  fellow-students  at  Winton- 
cester  Training-College  many  years  before  this  time. 

"  Glad  to  see  you,  Dick !  But  you  don't  look  well ! 
Nothing  the  matter.?" 

Phillotson  advanced  without  replying,  and  Gillingham 
closed  the  cupboard  and  pulled  up  beside  his  visitor. 

"  Why,  you  haven't  been  here — let  me  see — since  you 
were  married .''  I  called,  you  know,  but  you  were  out ; 
and,  upon  my  word,  it  is  such  a  climb  after  dark  that  I 
have  been  waiting  till  the  days  are  longer  before  lumper- 
ing  up  again.     1  am  glad  you  didn't  wait,  however." 

Though  well-trained  and  even  proficient  masters,  they 
occasionally  used  a  dialect-word  of  their  boyhood  to  each 
other  in  private. 

"  I've  come,  George,  to  explain  to  you  my  reasons  for 
taking  a  step  that  I  am  about  to  take,  so  that  you,  at 
least,  will  understand  my  motives  if  other  people  question 
them  anywhen,  as  they  may — indeed,  certainly  will.  .  .  . 
But  anything  is  better  than  the  present  condition  of 
things.  God  forbid  that  you  should  ever  have  such  an 
experience  as  mine !" 


272  JUDE  THE   OBSCURE 

"  Sit  down.  You  don't  mean — anything  wrong  between 
you  and  Mrs.  Phillotson  }" 

"  I  do.  .  .  .  My  wretched  state  is  that  I've  a  wife  I  love, 
who  not  only  does  not  love  me,  but — but—  Well,  I  won't 
say.  I  know  her  feeling.  I  should  prefer  hatred  from 
her!" 

'"S-sh!" 

"  And  the  sad  part  of  it  is  that  she  is  not  so  much  to 
blame  as  I.  She  was  a  pupil-teacher  under  me,  as  you 
know,  and  I  took  advantage  of  her  inexperience,  and 
toled  her  out  for  walks,  and  got  her  to  agree  to  a  long  en- 
gagement before  she  well  knew  her  own  mind.  After- 
wards she  saw  somebody  else,  but  she  blindly  fulfilled  her 
engagement." 

"  Loving  the  other  .^" 

"Yes;  with  a  curious  tender  solicitude  seemingly,  though 
her  exact  feeling  for  him  is  a  riddle  to  me — and  to  him, 
too,  I  think — possibly  to  herself.  She  is  one  of  the  oddest 
creatures  I  ever  met.  However,  I  have  been  struck  with 
these  two  facts;  the  extraordinary  sympathy,  or  similari- 
ty, between  the  pair.  (He  is  her  cousin,  which  perhaps 
accounts  for  some  of  it.  They  seem  to  be  one  person 
split  in  two!)  And  with  her  unconquerable  aversion  to 
myself  as  a  husband,  even  though  she  may  like  me  as  a 
friend,  'tis  too  much  to  bear  longer.  She  has  conscien- 
tiously struggled  against  it,  but  to  no  purpose.  I  cannot 
bear  it  —  I  cannot!  I  can't  answer  her  arguments  —  she 
has  read  ten  times  as  much  as  I.  Her  intellect  sparkles 
like  diamonds,  while  mine  smoulders  like  brown  paper. 
.  .  .  She's  one  too  many  for  me  !" 

"She'll  get  over  it,  good-now ?" 

"Never!  It  is— but  I  won't  go  into  it— there  are  rea- 
sons why  she  never  will.  At  last  she  calmly  and  firmly 
asked  if  she  might  leave  me  and  go  to  him.  The  climax 
came  last  night,  when,  owing  to  my  entering  her  room  by 
accident,  she  jumped  out  of  window — so  strong  was  her 
dread  of  me !     She  pretended  it  was  a  dream,  but  that 


AT   SHASTON  273 

was  to  soothe  me.  Now  when  a  woman  jumps  out  of 
window  without  caring  whether  she  breaks  her  neck  or 
no,  she's  not  to  be  mistaken  ;  and  this  being  the  case,  I 
have  come  to  a  conclusion :  that  it  is  wrong  to  so  torture 
a  fellow-creature  any  longer  ;  and  I  won't  be  the  inhuman 
wretch  to  do  it,  cost  what  it  may  !" 

"  What— you'll  let  her  go  ?     And  with  her  lover  ?" 

"Whom  with  is  her  matter.  I  shall  let  her  go;  with 
him  certainly,  if  she  wishes.  I  know  I  may  be  wrong— I 
know  I  can't  logically,  or  religiously,  defend  my  conces- 
sion to  such  a  wish  of  hers,  or  harmonize  it  with  the 
doctrines  I  was  brought  up  in.  Only  I  know  one  thing  : 
something  within  me  tells  me  I  am  doing  wrong  in  refus- 
ing her.  I,  like  other  men,  profess  to  hold  that  if  a  hus- 
band gets  such  a  so-called  preposterous  request  from  his 
wife,  the  only  course  that  can  possibly  be  regarded  as 
right  and  proper  and  honorable  in  him  is  to  refuse  it, 
and  put  her  virtuously  under  lock  and  key,  and  mur- 
der her  lover  perhaps.  But  is  that  essentially  right 
and  proper  and  honorable,  or  is  it  contemptibly  mean 
and  selfish.?  I  don't  profess  to  decide.  I  simply  am 
going  to  act  by  instinct,  and  let  principles  take  care 
of  themselves.  If  a  person  who  has  blindly  walked  into 
a  quagmire  cries  for  help,  I  am  inclined  to  give  it,  if 
possible." 

"  But— you  see,  there's  the  question  of  neighbors  and 
society— what  will  happen  if  everybody—" 

"  Oh,  I  am  not  going  to  be  a  philosopher  any  longer! 
I  only  see  what's  under  my  eyes." 

"  Well,  I  don't  agree  with  your  instinct,  Dick,"  said 
Gillingham,  gravely.  "  I  am  quite  amazed,  to  tell  the 
truth,  that  such  a  sedate,  plodding  fellow  as  you  should 
hav^e  entertained  such  a  craze  for  a  moment.  You  said 
when  I  called  that  she  was  puzzling  and  peculiar  ;  I  think 
j'ou  arc !" 

"  Have  you  ever  stood  before  a  woman  whom  you  know 
to  be  intrinsically  a  good  woman,  while  she  has  pleaded 
18 


274  JUDE  THE  OBSCURE 

for  release — been  the  man  she  has  knelt  to  and  implored 
indulgence  of  ?" 

"  I  am  thankful  to  say  I  haven't." 

"Then  I  don't  think  you  are  in  a  position  to  give  an 
opinion.  I  have  been  that  man,  and  it  makes  all  the 
difference  in  the  world,  if  one  has  any  manliness  or  chiv- 
alry in  him.  I  had  not  the  remotest  idea— living  apart 
from  women,  as  I  have  done,  for  so  many  years  —  that 
merely  taking  a  woman  to  church  and  putting  a  ring 
upon  her  finger  could  by  any  possibility  involve  one  in 
such  a  daily,  continuous  tragedy  as  that  now  shared  by 
her  and  me." 

"Well,  I  could  admit  some  excuse  for  letting  her  leave 
you,  provided  she  kept  to  herself.  But  to  go  attended  by 
a  cavalier — that  makes  a  difference." 

"  Not  a  bit.  Suppose,  as  I  believe,  she  would  rather 
endure  her  present  misery  than  be  made  to  promise  to 
keep  apart  from  him  ?  All  that  is  a  question  for  herself. 
It  is  not  the  same  thing  at  all  as  the  treachery  of  living 
on  with  a  husband  and  playing  him  false.  ,  .  .  However, 
she  has  not  distinctly  implied  living  with  him  as  wife, 
though  I  think  she  means  to.  .  .  .  And,  to  the  best  of  my 
understanding,  it  is  not  an  ignoble,  merely  animal,  feeling 
between  the  two  ;  that  is  the  worst  of  it,  because  it  makes 
me  think  their  affection  will  be  enduring.  I  did  not  mean 
to  confess  to  you  that  in  the  first  jealous  weeks  of  my 
marriage,  before  I  had  come  to  my  right  mind,  I  hid  my- 
self in  the  school  one  evening  when  they  were  together 
there,  and  I  heard  what  they  said.  I  am  ashamed  of  it 
now,  though  I  suppose  I  was  only  exercising  a  legal  right. 
I  found  from  their  manner  that  an  extraordinary  affinity, 
or  sympathy,  entered  into  their  attachment,  which  some- 
how took  away  all  flavor  of  grossness.  Their  supreme 
desire  is  to  be  together  — to  share  each  other's  emotions, 
and  fancies,  and  dreams." 

"Platonic  !" 

"Well,  no.    Shelleyan  would  be  nearer  to  it.     They  re- 


AT   SHASTON  275 

mind  me  of  Laon  and  Cynthia.  Also  of  Paul  and  Virginia 
a  little.  The  more  I  reflect,  the  more  entirely  I  am  on 
their  side  !" 

"  But  if  people  did  as  you  want  to  do,  there'd  be  a  gen- 
eral domestic  disintegration.  The  family  would  no  longer 
be  the  social  unit." 

"Yes,  I  am  all  abroad,  I  suppose,"  said  Phillotson, 
sadly.  "  I  was  never  a  very  bright  reasoner,  you  remem- 
ber. .  .  .  And  yet,  I  don't  see  why  the  woman  and  the 
children  should  not  be  the  unit  without  the  man." 

"  By  the  Lord  Harry  .'—Matriarchy  !  .  .  .  Does  she  say 
all  this  too  }" 

"  Oh  no.  She  little  thinks  I  have  out-Sued  Sue  in  this — 
all  in  the  last  twelve  hours  !" 

"  It  will  upset  all  received  opinion  hereabout.  Good 
God  !  what  will  Shaston  say  .''" 

"  I  don't  say  that  it  won't.  I  don't  know — I  don't  know  ! 
...  As  I  say,  I  am  only  a  feeler,  not  a  reasoner." 

"Now,"  said  Gillingham,  "let  us  take  it  quietly,  and 
have  something  to  drink  over  it."  He  went  under  the 
stairs  and  produced  a  bottle  of  cider-wine,  of  which  they 
drank  a  rummer  each.  "  I  think  you  are  rafted,  and  not 
yourself,"  he  continued.  "  Do  go  back  and  make  up  your 
mind  to  put  up  with  a  few  whims.  But  keep  her.  I  hear 
on  all  sides  that  she's  a  charming  young  thing." 

"  Ah,  yes !  That's  the  bitterness  of  it !  Well,  I  won't 
stay.     I  have  a  long  walk  before  me." 

Gillingham  accompanied  his  friend  a  mile  on  his  way, 
and  at  parting  expressed  his  hope  that  this  consultation, 
singular  as  its  subject  was,  would  be  the  renewal  of  their 
old  comradeship.  "  Stick  to  her  !"  were  his  last  words, 
flung  into  the  darkness  after  Phillotson  ;  from  which  his 
friend  answered,  "  Aye,  aye  !" 

But  when  Phillotson  was  alone  under  the  clouds  of 
night,  and  no  sound  was  audible  but  that  of  the  purling  trib- 
utaries of  the  Stour,  he  said,  "  So,  Gillingham,  my  friend, 
you  had  no  stronger  arguments  against  it  than  those  I ' 


276  JUUE  THE   OBSCURE 

"  I  think  she  ought  to  be  smacked  and  brought  to  her 
senses — that's  what  I  think  !"  murmured  Gillingham,  as 
he  walked  back  alone. 

The  next  morning  came,  and  at  breakfast  Phillotson 
told  Sue : 

"  You  may  go — with  whom  you  will.  I  absolutely  and 
unconditionally  agree." 

Having  once  come  to  this  conclusion,  it  seemed  to  Phil- 
lotson more  and  more  indubitably  the  true  one.  His  mild 
serenity  at  the  sense  that  he  was  doing  his  duty  by  a  wom- 
an who  was  at  his  mercy  almost  overpowered  his  grief  at 
relinquishing  her. 

Some  days  passed,  and  the  evening  of  their  last  meal 
together  was  come — a  cloudy  evening  with  wind — which, 
indeed,  was  very  seldom  absent  in  this  elevated  place. 
How  permanently  it  was  imprinted  upon  his  vision  ;  that 
look  of  her  as  she  glided  into  the  parlor  to  tea,  a  slim, 
flexible  figure  ;  a  face,  strained  from  its  roundness,  and 
marked  by  the  pallors  of  restless  days  and  nights,  sug- 
gesting tragic  possibilities  quite  at  variance  with  her  times 
of  buoyancy ;  a  trying  of  this  morsel  and  that,  and  an  in- 
ability to  eat  either.  Her  nerv'ous  manner,  begotten  of  a 
fear  lest  he  should  be  injured  by  her  course,  might  have 
been  interpreted  by  a  stranger  as  displeasure  that  Phillot- 
son intruded  his  presence  on  her  for  the  few  brief  min- 
utes that  remained. 

"  You  had  better  have  a  slice  of  ham,  or  an  egg,  or 
something  with  your  tea .-'  You  can't  travel  on  a  mouth- 
ful of  bread-and-butter." 

She  took  the  slice  he  helped  her  to;  and  they  discussed, 
as  they  sat,  trivial  questions  of  housekeeping,  such  as 
where  he  would  find  the  key  of  this  or  that  cupboard, 
what  little  bills  were  paid,  and  what  not. 

"  I  am  a  bachelor  by  nature,  as  you  know.  Sue,"  he  said, 
in  a  heroic  attempt  to  put  her  at  her  ease.  "  So  that 
being  without  a  wife  w^ill  not  really  be  irksome  to  me,  as 
it  might  be  to  other  men  who  have  had  one  a  little  while. 


AT   SHASTON  277 

I  have,  too,  this  grand  hobby  in  my  head  of  writing  '  The 
Roman  Antiquities  of  Wessex,'  which  will  occupy  all  my 
spare  hours." 

"  If  you  will  send  me  some  of  the  manuscript  to  copy 
at  any  time,  as  you  used  to,  I  will  do  it  with  so  much 
pleasure  !"  she  said,  with  amenable  gentleness  ;  "  I  should 
much  like  to  be  some  help  to  you  still — as  a  f-f-friend." 

Phillotson  mused,  and  said :  "  No,  I  think  we  ought  to 
be  really  separate,  if  we  are  to  be  at  all.  And  for  this 
reason,  that  I  don't  wish  to  ask  you  any  questions,  and 
particularly  wish  you  not  to  give  me  information  as  to 
your  movements,  or  even  your  address.  .  .  .  Now,  what 
money  do  you  want  ?     You  must  have  some,  you  know." 

"  Oh,  of  course,  Richard,  I  couldn't  think  of  having  any 
oi  jour  money  to  go  away  from  you  with  !  I  don't  want 
any  either.  I  have  enough  of  my  own  to  last  me  for  a 
long  while,  and  Jude  will  let  me  have — " 

"  I  would  rather  not  know  anything  about  him,  if  you 
don't  mind.  You  are  free,  absolutely  ;  and  your  course  is 
your  own." 

"  Very  well.  But  I'll  just  say  that  I  have  packed  only 
a  change  or  two  of  my  own  personal  clothing,  and  one  or 
two  little  things  besides  that  are  my  very  own.  I  wish 
you  would  look  into  my  trunk  before  it  is  closed.  Be- 
sides that,  I  have  only  a  small  parcel  that  will  go  into 
Jude's  portmanteau." 

"  Of  course  I  shall  do  no  such  thing  as  examine  your 
luggage !  I  wish  you  would  take  three-quarters  of  the 
household  furniture.  I  don't  want  to  be  bothered  with  it. 
I  have  a  sort  of  aflection  for  a  little  of  it  that  belonged  to 
my  poor  mother  and  father.  But  the  rest  you  are  wel- 
come to  whenever  you  like  to  send  for  it." 

"That  I  shall  never  do." 

"  You  go  by  the  six-thirty  train,  don't  you  ?  It  is  now 
a  quarter  to  six." 

"  You.  .  ,  .  You  don't  seem  very  sorry  I  am  going, 
Richard  ?" 


278  JUDE  THE  OBSCURE 

"Oh  no — perhaps  not." 

"  I  like  you  much  for  how  you  have  behaved.  It  is 
a  curious  thing  that  directly  I  have  begun  to  regard 
you  as  not  my  husband,  but  as  my  old  teacher,  I  like  you. 
I  won't  be  so  affected  as  to  say  I  love  you,  because  you 
know  I  don't,  except  as  a  friend.  But  you  do  seem  that 
to  me." 

Sue  was  for  a  few  moments  a  little  tearful  at  these  reflec- 
tions, and  then  the  station  omnibus  came  round  to  take 
her  up.  Phillotson  saw  her  things  put  on  the  top,  handed 
her  in,  and  was  obliged  to  make  an  appearance  of  kissing 
her  as  he  wished  her  good-bye,  though  she  shrank  even 
from  that.  From  the  cheerful  manner  in  which  they 
parted  the  omnibus -man  had  no  other  idea  than  that 
she  was  going  for  a  short  visit. 

When  Phillotson  got  back  into  the  house  he  went  up- 
stairs and  opened  the  window  in  the  direction  the  omnibus 
had  taken.  Soon  the  noise  of  its  wheels  died  away.  He 
came  down  then,  his  face  compressed  like  that  of  one 
bearing  pain ;  he  put  on  his  hat  and  went  out,  following 
by  the  same  route  for  nearly  a  mile.  Suddenly  turning 
round,  he  came  home. 

He  had  no  sooner  entered  than  the  voice  of  his  friend 
Gillingham  greeted  him  from  the  front  room. 

"  I  could  make  nobody  hear ;  so,  finding  your  door  open, 
I  walked  in  and  made  myself  comfortable.  I  said  I  would 
call,  you  remember." 

"  Yes.  I  am  much  obliged  to  you,  Gillingham,  particu- 
larly for  coming  to-night." 

"  How  is  Mrs. — " 

"  She  is  quite  well.  She  is  gone — just  gone.  That's 
her  teacup  that  she  drank  out  of  only  an  hour  ago.  And 
that's  the  plate  she — " 

Phillotson's  throat  got  choked  up,  and  he  could  not  go 
on.     He  turned  and  pushed  the  tea-things  aside. 

"  Have  you  had  any  tea,  by-the-bye  ?"  he  asked,  pres- 
ently, in  a  renewed  voice. 


AT   SHASTON  279 

"  No — yes — never  mind,"  said  Gillingham,  preoccupied. 
"  Gone,  you  say  she  is  ?" 

"Yes.  ...  I  would  have  died  for  her,  bul  I  wouldn't 
be  cruel  to  her  in  the  name  of  the  law.  She  is,  as  I  un- 
derstand, gone  to  join  her  lover.  What  they  are  going 
to  do  I  cannot  say.  Whatever  it  may  be,  she  has  my  full 
consent  to." 

There  was  a  stability,  a  ballast,  in  Phillotson's  pronounce- 
ment which  restrained  his  friend's  comment.  "  Shall  I — 
leave  you  }"  he  asked. 

"  No,  no.  It  is  a  mercy  to  me  that  you  have  come.  I 
have  some  articles  to  arrange  and  clear  away.  Would 
you  help  me  ?" 

Gillingham  assented  ;  and  having  gone  to  the  upper 
rooms  the  school-master  opened  drawers,  and  began  taking 
out  all  Sue"s  things  that  she  had  left  behind,  and  laying 
them  in  a  large  box.  "  She  wouldn't  take  all  I  wanted 
her  to,"  he  continued.  "  But  when  I  made  up  my  mind 
to  her  going  to  live  in  her  own  way,  I  did  make  up  my 
mind." 

"Some  men  would  have  stopped  at  an  agreement  to 
separate." 

"  I've  gone  into  all  that,  and  don't  wish  to  argue  it. 
I  was,  and  am,  the  most  old-fashioned  man  in  the  world 
on  the  question  of  marriage — in  fact,  I  had  never  thought 
critically  about  its  ethics  at  all.  But  certain  facts  stared 
me  in  the  face,  and  I  couldn't  go  against  them." 

They  went  on  with  the  packing  silently.  When  it  was 
done,  Phillotson  closed  the  box  and  turned  the  key. 

"  There  !"  he  said.  "  To  adorn  her  in  somebody's  eyes  ; 
never  again  in  mine  !" 


Four- AND -TWENTY  hours  before  this  time  Sue  had 
written  the  following  note  to  Jude  : 

"It  is  as  I  told  you,  and  I  am  leaving  to-morrow  evening. 
Richard  and  I  thought  it  could  be  done  with  less  oblrusiveness 
after  dark.  I  feel  rather  frightened,  and  therefore  ask  you  to  be 
sure  you  are  on  the  platform  to  meet  me  by  the  train  arriving  at  a 
quarter  to  nine.  I  know  you  will,  of  course,  dear  Jude,  but  1  feel 
so  timid  that  I  can't  help  begging  you  to  be  punctual.  lie  has 
been  so  very  kind  to  me  through  it  all  ! 

"  Now  to  our  meeting  !  S." 

As  she  was  carried  by  the  omnibus  farther  and  farther 
down  from  the  mountain  town — the  single  passenger  that 
evening — she  regarded  the  receding  road  with  a  sad  face. 
But  no  hesitation  was  apparent  therein. 

The  up-train  by  which  she  was  departing  stopped  by 
signal  only.  To  Sue  it  seemed  strange  that  such  a  pow- 
erful organization  as  a  railway-train  should  be  brought  to 
a  standstill  on  purpose  for  her — a  fugitive  from  her  lawful 
home. 

The  twenty  minutes'  journey  drew  towards  its  close, 
and  Sue  began  gathering  her  things  together  to  alight. 
At  the  moment  that  the  train  came  to  a  standstill  by  the 
Melchester  platform  a  hand  was  laid  on  the  door,  and  she 
beheld  Jude.  He  entered  the  compartment  promptly. 
He  had  a  black  bag  in  his  hand,  and  was  dressed  in  the 
dark  suit  he  wore  on  Sundays  and  in  the  evening  after 
work.  Altogether  he  looked  a  very  handsome  young  fel- 
low, his  ardent  affection  for  her  burning  in  his  eyes. 


AT   SHASTON  281 

"  Oh,  Jude  !"  She  clasped  his  hand  with  both  hers,  and 
her  tense  state  caused  her  to  simmer  over  in  a  little  suc- 
cession of  dry  sobs.    "  I  —  I  am  so  glad  1    I  get  out  here  ?" 

"No.  I  get  in,  dear  one  !  I've  packed.  Besides  this 
bag  I've  only  a  big  box,  which  is  labelled." 

"  But  don't  I  get  out }    Aren't  we  going  to  stay  here  ?" 

"  We  couldn't  possibly,  don't  you  see.  We  are  known 
here — I,  at  any  rate,  am  well  known.  I've  booked  for 
Aldbrickham  ;  and  here's  your  ticket  for  the  same  place, 
as  you  have  only  one  to  here." 

"  I  thought  we  should  have  stayed  here,"  she  repeated. 

"  It  wouldn't  have  done  at  all." 

"  Ah  ! — perhaps  not." 

"  There  wasn't  time  for  me  to  write  and  say  the  place 
I  had  decided  on.  Aldbrickham  is  a  much  bigger  town 
— sixty  or  seventy  thousand  inhabitants  —  and  nobody 
knows  anything  about  us  there." 

"  And  you  have  given  up  your  Cathedral  work  here  ?" 

"  Yes.  It  was  rather  sudden — your  message  coming 
unexpectedly.  Strictly,  I  might  have  been  made  to  finish 
out  the  week.  But  I  pleaded  urgency,  and  I  was  let  off. 
I  would  have  deserted  any  day  at  your  command,  dear 
Sue.     I  have  deserted  more  than  that  for  you  !" 

"I  fear  I  am  doing  you  a  lot  of  harm.  Ruining  your 
prospects  of  the  Church  ;  ruining  your  progress  in  your 
trade;  everything!" 

"The  Church  is  no  more  to  me.  Let  it  lie.  /am  not 
to  be  one  of 

"  '  The  soldier-saints  who,  row  on  row, 
Burn  upward  each  to  his  point  of  bliss,'  " 

if  any  such  there  be!     My  point  of  bliss  is  not  upward, 
but  here." 

"  Oh,  I  seem  so  bad — upsetting  men's  courses  like  this  !" 
said  she,  taking  up  in  her  voice  the  emotion  that  had  be- 
gun in  his.  But  she  recovered  her  equanimity  by  the 
time  they  had  travelled  a  dozen  miles. 


282  JUDE  THE  OBSCURE 

"  He  has  been  so  good  in  letting  me  go,"  she  resumed. 
"And  here's  a  note  I  found  on  my  dressing- table,  ad- 
dressed to  you." 

"Yes.  He's  not  an  unworthy  fellow,"  said  Jude,  glan- 
cing at  the  note.  "And  I  am  ashamed  of  myself  for  hat- 
ing him  because  he  married  you." 

"According  to  the  rule  of  women's  whims,  I  suppose  I 
ought  to  suddenly  love  him,  because  he  has  let  me  go 
so  generously  and  unexpectedly,"  she  answered,  smiling. 
"  But  I  am  so  cold,  or  devoid  of  gratitude,  or  so  some- 
thing, that  even  this  generosity  hasn't  made  me  love  him, 
or  repent,  or  want  to  stay  with  him  as  his  wife  ;  although 
I  do  feel  I  like  his  large-mindedness,  and  respect  him 
more  than  ever." 

"  It  may  not  work  so  well  for  us  as  if  he  had  been  less 
kind,  and  you  had  run  away  against  his  will,"  murmured 
Jude. 

"  That  I  never  would  have  done." 

Jude's  eyes  rested  musingly  on  her  face.  Then  he  sud- 
denly kissed  her,  and  was  going  to  kiss  her  again.  "No 
— only  once  now — please,  Jude  !" 

"  That's  rather  cruel,"  he  answered,  but  acquiesced. 
"Such  a  strange  thing  has  happened  to  me,"  Jude  con- 
tinued, after  a  silence.  "  Arabella  has  actually  written  to 
ask  me  to  get  a  divorce  from  her — in  kindness  to  her,  she 
says.  She  wants  to  honestly  and  legally  marry  that  man 
she  has  already  married  virtually,  and  begs  me  to  enable 
her  to  do  it." 

"  What  have  you  done  .''" 

"  I  have  agreed.  I  thought  at  first  I  couldn't  do  it 
without  getting  her  into  trouble  about  that  second  mar- 
riage, and  I  don't  want  to  injure  her  in  any  way.  Per- 
haps she's  no  worse  than  I  am,  after  all !  But  nobody 
knows  about  it  over  here,  and  I  find  it  will  not  be  a  diffi- 
cult proceeding  at  all.  If  she  wants  to  start  afresh,  I  have 
only  too  obvious  reasons  for  not  hindering  her." 

"Then  you'll  be  free.'" 


AT   SHASTON  283 

"Yes,  I  shall  be  free." 

"Where  are  we  booked  for?"  she  asked,  with  the  dis- 
continuity that  marked  her  to-night. 

"  Aldbrickham,  as  I  said." 

"  But  it  will  be  very  late  when  we  get  there  ?" 

"Yes.  I  thought  of  that,  and  I  wired  for  a  room  for  us 
at  the  Temperance  Hotel  there." 

"One.>" 

"Yes— one." 

She  looked  at  him.  "Oh,  Jude!"  Sue  bent  her  fore- 
head against  the  corner  of  the  compartment.  "  I  thought 
you  might  do  it,  and  that  I  was  deceiving  you.  But  I 
didn't  mean  that ! ' 

In  the  pause  which  followed,  Jude's  eyes  fixed  them- 
selves with  a  stultified  expression  on  the  opposite  seat. 

"Well!"  he  said.  .  .  .  "Well!" 

He  rem.ained  in  silence  ;  but  seeing  how  discomfited  he 
was,  she  put  her  face  against  his  cheek,  murmuring, 
"  Don't  be  vexed,  dear  !" 

"  Oh — there's  no  harm  done,"  he  said.  "  But — I  under- 
stood it  like  that.  ...  Is  this  a  sudden  change  of  mind  }" 

"You  have  no  right  to  ask  me  such  a  question,  and  I 
sha'n't  answer  !"  she  said,  smiling. 

"  My  dear  one,  your  happiness  is  more  to  me  than  any- 
thing—although we  seem  to  verge  on  quarrelling  so  often 
— and  your  will  is  law  to  me.  I  am  somethmg  more 
than  a  mere — selfish  fellow,  I  hope.  Have  it  as  you  wish  !" 
On  reflection  his  brow  showed  perplexity.  "  But  perhaps 
it  is  that  you  don't  love  me — not  that  you  have  become 
conventional.  Much  as,  under  your  teaching,  I  hate  con- 
vention, I  hope  it  /s  that,  not  the  other  terrible  alternative  !" 

Even  at  this  obvious  moment  for  candor  Sue  could  not 
be  quite  candid  as  to  the  state  of  that  mystery,  her  heart. 
"Put  it  down  to  my  timidity,"  she  said,  with  hurried  eva- 
siveness ;  "  to  a  woman's  natural  timidity  when  the  crisis 
comes.  I  »ia_y  feel  as  well  as  you  that  I  have  a  perfect 
right  to  live  with  you  as  you  thought — from  this  moment. 


284  JUDE  THE  OBSCURE 

I  }itay  hold  the  opinion  that,  in  a  proper  state  of  society,  the 
father  of  a  woman's  child  will  be  as  much  a  private  mat- 
ter of  hers  as  the  cut  of  her  under-  linen,  on  whom  no- 
body will  have  any  right  to  conjecture.  But  partly,  per- 
haps, because  it  is  by  his  generosity  that  I  am  now  free,  I 
would  rather  not  be  other  than  a  little  rigid.  If  there  had 
been  a  rope  ladder,  and  he  had  run  after  us  with  pistols,  it 
would  have  seemed  different,  and  I  may  have  acted  other- 
wise. But  don't  press  me  and  criticise  me,  Jude  !  As- 
sume that  I  haven't  the  courage  of  my  opinions.  I  know 
I  am  a  poor,  miserable  creature.  My  nature  is  not  so  pas- 
sionate as  yours!" 

He  repeated  simply:  "I  thought — what  I  naturally 
thought.  But  if  we  are  not  lovers,  we  are  not.  Phillot- 
son  thought  so,  I  am  sure.  See,  here  is  what  he  has 
written  to  me."  He  opened  the  letter  she  had  brought, 
and  read  : 

"  I  make  only  one  condition — that  you  are  tender  and 
kind  to  her.  I  know  you  love  her.  But  even  love  may 
be  cruel  at  times.  You  are  made  for  each  other:  it  is 
obvious,  palpable,  to  any  unbiassed  third  person.  You 
were  all  along  '  the  shadowy  third  '  in  my  short  life  with 
her.     I  repeat,  take  care  of  Sue." 

"He's  a  good  fellow,  isn't  he  I"  she  said,  with  latent 
tears.  On  reconsideration  she  added,  "  He  was  very 
resigned  to  letting  me  go— too  resigned  almost.  I  never 
was  so  near  being  in  love  with  him  as  when  he  made 
such  thoughtful  arrangements  for  my  being  comfortable 
on  my  journey,  and  offering  to  provide  money.  Yet  I 
was  not.  If  I  loved  him  ever  so  little  as  a  wife,  I'd  go 
back  to  him  even  now." 

"  But  you  don't,  do  you  }" 

"  It  is  true — oh,  so  terribly  true  ! — I  don't." 

"  Nor  me  neither,  I  half  fear,"  he  said,  pettishly.  "  Nor 
anybody,  perhaps.  Sue,  sometimes,  when  I  am  vexed 
with  you,  I  think  you  are  incapable  of  real  love." 

"That's  not  good  and   loyal  of  you,"  she  said;   and 


AT   SHASTON  285 

drawing  away  from  him  as  far  as  she  could,  looked  se- 
verely out  into  the  darkness.  She  presently  added,  in 
hurt  tones,  turning  round  :  "  My  liking  for  you  is  not  as 
some  women's  perhaps.  But  it  is  a  delight  in  being  with 
you,  of  a  supremely  delicate  kind,  and  I  don't  want  to  go 
further  and  risk  it  by— an  attempt  to  intensify  it !  I  quite 
realized  that,  as  woman  with  man,  it  was  a  risk  to  come. 
But,  as  me  with  you,  I  resolved  to  trust  you  to  set  my 
wishes  above  your  gratification.  Don't  discuss  it  further, 
dear  Jude!" 

"  Of  course,  if  it  would  make  you  reproach  yourself 
.  .  .  but  you  do  like  me  very  much.  Sue  1 — say  you  do ! 
Say  that  you  do  a  quarter,  a  tenth,  as  much  as  I  do  you, 
and  I'll  be  content!" 

"  I've  let  you  kiss  me,  and  that  tells  enough." 

"  Just  once  or  so  !" 

"  Well— don't  be  a  greedy  boy." 

He  leaned  back,  and  did  not  look  at  her  for  a  long 
time.  That  episode  in  her  past  history  of  which  she  had 
told  him — of  the  poor  Christminster  graduate  whom  she 
had  handled  thus— returned  to  Jude's  mind,  and  he  saw 
himself  as  a  possible  second  in  such  a  torturing  destiny. 

"This  is  a  queer  elopement!"  he  murmured.  "Per- 
haps you  are  making  a  cat's-paw  of  me  with  Phillotson 
all  this  time.  Upon  my  word,  it  almost  seems  so — to  see 
you  sitting  up  there  so  prim !" 

"Now,  you  mustn't  be  angry — I  w^on't  let  you!"  she 
coaxed,  turning  and  moving  nearer  to  him.  "You  did 
kiss  me  just  now,  you  know,  and  I  didn't  dislike  you  to. 
very  much,  Jude.  Only  I  don't  want  to  let  you  do  it 
again,  just  yet — considering  how  w^e  are  circumstanced, 
don't  you  see  !" 

He  could  never  resist  her  when  she  pleaded  (as  she 
well  knew).  And  they  sat  side  by  side  with  joined  hands, 
till  she  aroused  herself  at  some  thought. 

"  I  can't  possibly  go  to  that  Temperance  Inn,  after  your 
telegraphing  that  message!" 


286  JUDE  THE  OBSCURE 

"  Why  not  ?" 

"  You  can  see  well  enough  !" 

"  Very  well ;  there'll  be  some  other  one  open,  no  doubt. 
I  have  sometimes  thought,  since  your  marrying  Phillot- 
son  because  of  a  stupid  scandal,  that  under  the  affectation 
of  independent  views  you  are  as  enslaved  to  the  social^ 
code  as  any  woman  I  know  !" 

"  Not  mentally!  But  I  haven't  the  courage  of  my 
views,  as  I  said  before.  I  didn't  marry  him  altogether 
because  of  the  scandal.  But  sometimes  a  woman's  love  of 
beittg  loved  gets  the  better  of  her  conscience,  and  though 
she  is  agonized  at  the  thought  of  treating  a  man  cruelly, 
she  encourages  him  to  love  her  while  she  doesn't  love 
him  at  all.  Then,  when  she  sees  him  suffering,  her  re- 
morse sets  in,  and  she  does  what  she  can  to  repair  the 
wrong." 

"You  simply  mean  that  you  flirted  outrageously  with 
him,  poor  old  chap,  and  then  repented,  and,  to  make  rep- 
aration, married  him,  though  you  tortured  yourself  to 
death  by  doing  it }" 

"  Well — if  you  will  put  it  brutally  ! — it  was  a  little  like 
that — that  and  the  scandal  together — and  your  conceal- 
ing from  me  what  you  ought  to  have  told  me  before  ! " 

He  could  see  that  she  was  distressed  and  tearful  at  his 
criticisms,  and  soothed  her,  saying,  "  There,  dear,  don't 
mind!  Crucify  me,  if  you  will!  You  know  you  are  all 
the  world  to  me,  whatever  you  do  !" 

"  I  am  very  bad  and  unprincipled — I  know  you  think 
that !"  she  said,  trying  to  blink  away  her  tears. 

"  I  think  and  know  you  are  my  dear  Sue,  from  whom 
neither  length  nor  breadth,  nor  things  present  nor  things 
to  come,  can  divide  me  !" 

Though  so  sophisticated  in  many  things,  she  was  such 
a  child  in  others  that  this  satisfied  her,  and  they  reached 
the  end  of  their  journey  on  the  best  of  terms.  It  was 
about  ten  o'clock  when  they  arrived  at  Aldbrickham,  the 
county  town  of  North  Wessex.      As  she  would  not  go  to 


If 


AT   SHASTON  287 

the  Temperance  Hotel  because  of  the  form  of  his  telegram, 
Jude  inquired  for  another  ;  and  a  youth  who  volunteered 
to  find  one  wheeled  their  luggage  to  a  place  near  at  hand, 
which  proved  to  be  the  inn  at  which  Jude  had  stayed 
with  Arabella  on  that  one  occasion  of  their  meeting  after 
their  division  for  years. 

Owing,  however,  to  their  now  entering  it  by  another 
door,  and  to  his  preoccupation,  he  did  not  at  first  recog- 
nize the  place.  When  they  had  engaged  their  respective 
rooms  they  went  down  to  a  late  supper.  During  Jude's 
temporary  absence  the  waiting-maid  spolce  to  Sue. 

"I  think,  ma'am,  I  remember  your  relation,  or  friend, 
or  whatever  he  is,  coming  here  once  before — late,  just 
like  this,  with  his  wife— a  lady,  at  any  rate,  that  wasn't 
you  by  no  manner  of  means — jest  as  med  be  with  you 
now." 

"  Oh,  do  you  }"  said  Sue,  with  a  certain  sickness  of  heart. 
"Though  I  think  you  must  be  mistaken!  How  long 
ago  was  it .'" 

"  About  a  month  or  two.  A  handsome,  full-figured 
woman." 

When  Jude  came  back  and  sat  down  to  supper,  Sue 
seemed  moping  and  miserable.  "Jude,"  she  said  to  him, 
plaintively,  at  their  parting  that  night  upon  the  landing, 
"  it  is  not  so  nice  and  pleasant  as  it  used  to  be  with  us  ! 
I  don't  like  it  here — I  can't  bear  the  place!  And  I  don't 
like  you  so  well  as  I  did  !" 

"  How  fidgeted  you  seem,  dear !  Why  do  you  change 
like  this.^" 

"  Because  it  was  cruel  to  bring  me  here  !" 

"  Why  }" 

"  You  were  lately  here  with  Arabella.  There,  now  I 
have  said  it!" 

"  Dear  me,  why — "  said  Jude,  looking  round  him.  "  Yes, 
it  is  the  same !  I  really  didn't  know  it,  Sue.  Well — 
it  is  not  cruel,  since  we  have  come  as  we  have — two  re- 
lations staying  together." 


288  JUDE   THE    OBSCURE 

"  How  long  ago  was  it  you  were  here  ?  Tell  me  !  tell 
me  !" 

"The  day  before  I  met  you  in  Christminster,  when  we 
went  back  to  Marygreen  together.  I  told  you  I  had  met 
her." 

"  Yes,  you  said  you  had  met  her,  but  you  didn't  tell 
me  all.  Your  story  was  that  you  had  met  as  estranged 
people,  who  were  not  husband  and  wife  at  all  in  Heaven's 
sight— not  that  you  had  made  it  up  with  her." 

"  We  didn't  make  it  up,"  he  said,  sadly.  "  I  can't  ex- 
plain, Sue." 

"  You've  been  false  to  me ;  you,  my  last  hope  !  And  I 
shall  never  forget  it — never !" 

"But  by  your  own  wish,  dear  Sue,  we  are  only  to  be 
friends,  not  lovers!  It  is  so  very  inconsistent  of  you 
to — 

"  Friends  can  be  jealous  !" 

"  I  don't  see  that.  You  concede  nothing  to  me,  and  I 
have  to  concede  everything  to  you.  After  all,  you  were 
on  good  terms  with  your  husband  at  that  time." 

"  No,  I  wasn't,  Jude.  Oh,  how  can  you  think  so  !  And 
you  have  taken  me  in,  even  if  you  didn't  intend  to."  She 
was  so  mortified  that  he  was  obliged  to  take  her  into  her 
room  and  close  the  door,  lest  the  people  should  hear. 
"  Was  it  this  room  ?  Yes,  it  was — I  see  by  your  look  it 
was  !  I  won't  have  it  for  mine.  Oh,  it  was  treacherous  of 
you  to  have  her  again  !     /jumped  out  of  the  window  !" 

"  But,  Sue,  she  was,  after  all,  my  legal  wife,  if  not — " 

Slipping  down  on  her  knees  Sue  buried  her  face  in  the 
bed  and  wept. 

"  I  never  knew  such  an  unreasonable — such  a  dog-in- 
the-manger  feeling,"  said  Jude.  "  I  am  not  to  approach 
you,  nor  anybody  else  !" 

"Oh,  don't  you  nndcrstand  my  feeling.'  Why  don't 
j'ou .'  Why  are  you  so  gross?  /  jumped  out  of  the 
window  !" 

"Jumped  out  of  window?" 


AT  SHASTON  289 

"  I  can't  explain." 

It  was  true  that  he  did  not  understand  her  feeling  very- 
well.  But  he  did  a  little,  and  began  to  love  her  none 
the  less. 

"  I — I  thought  you  cared  for  nobody — desired  nobody 
in  the  world  but  me  at  that  time— and  ever  since  !"  con- 
tinued Sue. 

"  It  is  true.  I  did  not,  and  don't  now!"  said  Jude,  as 
distressed  as  she. 

"  But  you  must  have  thought  much  of  her  !     Or — " 

"No,  I  need  not;  you  don't  understand  me  either — 
women  never  do  !  Why  should  you  get  into  such  a  tan- 
trum about  nothing?" 

Looking  up  from  the  quilt  she  replied,  provokingly,  "  If 
it  hadn't  been  for  that,  perhaps  I  would  have  gone  on  to 
the  Temperance  Hotel,  after  all,  as  you  proposed;  for  I 
was  beginning  to  think  I  did  belong  to  you  !" 

"  Oh,  it  is  of  no  consequence,"  said  Jude,  distantly. 

"I  thought,  of  course,  that  she  had  never  been  really 
your  wife  since  she  left  you  of  her  own  accord  years  and 
years  ago.  My  sense  of  it  was,  that  a  parting  such  as 
yours  from  her,  and  mine  from  him,  ended  the  marriage." 

"  I  can't  say  more  without  speaking  against  her,  and  I 
don't  want  to  do  that,"  said  he.  "Yet  I  must  tell  you 
one  thing,  which  would  settle  the  matter  in  any  case. 
She  has  married  another  man— really  married  him  !  I 
knew  nothing  about  it  till  after  the  visit  we  made  here." 

"Married  another .^  ...  It  is  a  crime— as  the  world 
treats  it,  but  does  not  believe." 

"  There  ;  now  you  are  yourself  again.     Yes,  it  is  a  crime 

as  you  don't  hold,  but  would  fearfully  concede.     But  I 

shall  never  inform  against  her.  And  it  is  evidently  a  prick 
of  conscience  in  her  that  has  led  her  to  urge  me  to  get  a 
divorce,  that  she  may  re-marry  this  man  legally.  So,  you 
perceive,  I  shall  not  be  likely  to  see  her  again." 

"And  you  didn't  really  know  anything  of  this  when 
you  saw  her  ?"  said  Sue,  more  gently,  as  she  rose. 

>9 


290  JUDE  THE  OBSCURE 

"  I  did  not.  Considering  all  things,  I  don't  think  you 
ought  to  be  angry,  darling  !" 

"  I  am  not.  But  I  sha'n't  go  to  the  Temperance 
Hotel !" 

He  laughed.  "Never  mind,"  he  said.  "So  that  I  am 
near  you,  I  am  comparatively  happy.  It  is  more  than 
this  earthly  wretch  called  Me  deserves— you  spirit,  you 
disembodied  creature,  you  dear,  sweet,  tantalizing  phan- 
tom—hardly flesh  at  all ;  so  that  when  I  put  my  arms 
round  you,  I  almost  expect  them  to  pass  through  you  as 
through  air  !  Forgive  me  for  being  gross,  as  you  call  it ! 
Remember  that  our  calling  cousins  when  really  strangers 
was  a  snare.  The  enmity  of  our  parents  gave  a  piquancy 
to  you  in  my  ej^es  that  was  intenser  even  than  the  novelty 
of  ordinary  new  acquaintance." 

"Say  those  pretty  lines,  then,  from  Shelley's  '  Epipsy- 
chidion'  as  if  they  meant  me,"  she  solicited,  slanting  up 
closer  to  him  as  they  stood.     "  Don't  you  know  them .-'" 

"  I  know  hardly  any  poetry,"  he  replied,  mournfully. 

"  Don't  you  ?     These  are  some  of  them  : 

"  '  There  was  a  Being  whom  my  spirit  oft 
Met  on  its  visioned  wanderings  far  aloft. 

A  seraph  of  Heaven,  too  gentle  to  be  luiman, 
Veiling  beneath  that  radiant  form  of  woman  .   .  .'  " 

"  Oh,  it  is  too  flattering,  so  I  won't  go  on  I  But  say  it's 
me  ! — say  it's  me  !" 

"  It  IS  you,  dear  ;  exactly  like  you  !" 

"  Now  I  forgive  you  !  And  you  shall  kiss  me  just  once 
there  —  not  very  long."  She  put  the  tip  of  her  finger 
gingerly  to  her  cheek,  and  he  did  as  commanded.  "You 
do  care  for  me  very  much,  don't  you,  in  spite  of  my  not — 
you  know .' ' 

"  Yes,  sweet !"  he  said,  with  a  sigh,  and  bade  her  good- 
night. 


i^' 


VI 

In,  returning  to  his  native  town  of  Shaston  as  school- 
master Phillotson  had  won  the  interest  and  awakened 
the  memories  of  the  inhabitants,  who,  though  they  did 
not  honor  him  for  his  miscellaneous  acquirements  as 
he  would  have  been  honored  elsewhere,  retained  for 
him  a  sincere  regard.  When,  shortly  after  his  arrival,  he 
brought  home  a  pretty  wife — awkwardly  pretty  for  him,  if 
he  did  not  take  care,  they  said — they  were  glad  to  have 
her  settle  among  them. 

For  some  time  after  her  flight  from  that  home  Sue's 
absence  did  not  excite  comment.  Her  place  as  monitor 
in  the  school  was  taken  by  another  young  woman  within 
a  few  days  of  her  vacating  it,  which  substitution  also 
passed  without  remark,  Sue's  services  having  been  of  a 
provisional  nature  only.  When,  however,  a  month  had 
passed,  and  Phillotson  casually  admitted  to  acquaintance 
that  he  did  not  know  where  his  wife  was  staying,  curiosity 
began  to  be  aroused  ;  till,  jumping  to  conclusions,  people 
ventured  to  affirm  that  Sue  had  played  him  false,  and  run 
away  from  him.  The  school-master's  growing  languor 
and  listlessness  over  his  work  gave  countenance  to  the 
idea. 

Though  Phillotson  had  held  his  tongue  as  long  as  he 
could,  except  to  his  friend  Giilingham,  his  honesty  and 
directness  would  not  allow  him  to  do  so  when  misappre- 
hensions as  to  Sue's  conduct  spread  abroad.  On  a  Mon- 
day morning  the  chairman  of  the  School  Committee 
called,  and,  after  attending  to  the  business  of  the  school, 
drew  Phillotson  aside  out  of  earshot  of  the  children. 


292  JUDE   THE  OBSCURE 

"  You'll  excuse  my  asking,  Phillotson,  since  everybody 
is  talking  of  it :  is  this  true  as  to  your  domestic  affairs — 
that  your  wife's  going  away  was  on  no  visit,  but  a  secret 
elopement  with  a  lover  ?     If  so,  I  condole  with  you." 

"  Don't,"  said  Phillotson.  "  There  was  no  secret  about 
it." 

"  She  has  gone  to  visit  friends  .-*" 

"  No." 

"Then  what  has  happened  ?" 
f  "  She  has  gone  away  under  circumstances  that  usually 
call  for  condolence  with  the  husband.     But  I  gave  my 
consent." 

The  chairman  looked  as  if  he  had  not  apprehended 
the  remark. 

"  What  I  say  is  quite  true,"  Phillotson  continued,  tes- 
tily. "  She  asked  leave  to  go  away  with  her  lover,  and 
I  let  her.  Why  shouldn't  I  ?  A  woman  of  full  age,  it 
was  a  question  for  her  own  conscience — not  for  me.  I 
was  not  her  jailer.  I  can't  explain  any  further.  I  don't 
wish  to  be  questioned." 

The  children  observed  that  much  seriousness  marked 
the  faces  of  the  two  men,  and  went  home  and  told  their 
parents  that  something  new  had  happened  about  Mrs. 
Phillotson.  Then  Phillotson's  little  maid-servant,  who 
was  a  school-girl  just  out  of  her  standards,  said  that  Mr. 
Phillotson  had  helped  in  his  wife's  packing,  had  offered 
her  what  money  she  required,  and  had  written  a  friendly 
letter  to  her  young  man,  telling  him  to  take  care  of  her. 
The  chairman  of  committee  thought  the  matter  over, 
and  talked  to  the  other  managers  of  the  school,  till  a  re- 
quest came  to  Phillotson  to  meet  them  privately.  The 
meeting  lasted  a  long  time,  and  at  the  end  the  school- 
master came  home,  looking,  as  usual,  pale  and  worn.  Gil- 
lingham  was  sitting  in  his  house  awaiting  him. 

"  Well,  it  is  as  you  said,"  observed  Phillotson,  flinging 
himself  down  wearily  in  a  chair.  "  They  have  requested 
me  to  send  in  my  resignation  on   account  of  my  scan- 


AT   SHASTON  293 

dalous  conduct  in  giving  my  tortured  wife  her  liberty — 
or,  as  they  call  it,  condoning  her  adultery.  But  I  shan't 
resign." 

•'  I  think  I  would." 

"  I  won't.  It  is  no  business  of  theirs.  It  doesn't  affect 
me  in  my  public  capacity  at  all.  They  may  expel  me,  if 
they  like." 

"If  you  make  a  fuss  it  will  get  into  the  papers,  and 
you'll  never  get  appointed  to  another  school.  You  see, 
they  have  to  consider  what  you  did  as  done  by  a  teacher 
of  youth — and  its  effects  as  such  upon  the  morals  of  the 
town  ;  and,  to  ordinary  opinion,  your  position  is  indefen- 
sible.    You  must  let  me  say  that." 

To  this  good  advice,  however,  Phillotson  would  not 
listen. 

"  I  don't  care,"  he  said.  "  I  don't  go  unless  I  am  turned 
out.  And  for  this  reason  :  that  by  resigning  I  acknowl- 
edge I  have  acted  wrongly  by  her,  when  I  am  more  and 
more  convinced  every  day  that  in  the  sight  of  Heaven, 
and  by  all  natural,  straightforward  humanity,  I  have  acted 
rightly." 

Gillingham  saw  that  his  rather  headstrong  friend  would 
not  be  able  to  maintain  such  a  position  as  this ;  but  he 
said  nothing  further,  and,  in  due  time — indeed,  in  a  quar- 
ter of  an  hour — the  formal  letter  of  dismissal  arrived,  the 
managers  having  remained  behind  to  write  it  after  Phil- 
lotson's  withdrawal.  The  latter  replied  that  he  should 
not  accept  dismissal,  and  called  a  public  meeting,  which 
he  attended,  although  he  looked  so  weak  and  ill  that  his 
friend  implored  him  to  stay  at  home.  When  he  stood  up 
to  give  his  reasons  for  contesting  the  decision  of  the  man- 
agers he  advanced  them  firmly,  as  he  had  done  to  his 
friend,  and  contended,  moreover,  that  the  matter  was  a 
domestic  theory  which  did  not  concern  them.  This  they 
over-ruled,  insisting  that  the  private  eccentricities  of  a 
teacher  came  quite  within  their  sphere  of  control,  as  it 
touched  the  morals  of  those  he  taught.     Phillotson  re- 


294  JUDE  THE   OBSCURE 

plied  that  he  did  not  see  how  an  act  of  Christian  charity 
could  injure  morals. 

All  the  respectable  inhabitants  and  well-to-do  fellow- 
natives  of  the  town  were  against  Phillotson  to  a  man. 
But,  somewhat  to  his  surprise,  some  dozen  champions 
rose  up  in  his  defence  as  from  the  ground. 

It  has  been  stated  that  Shaston  was  the  anchorage  of  a 
curious  and  interesting  group  of  itinerants,  who  frequent- 
ed the  numerous  fairs  and  markets  held  up  and  down 
Wessex  during  the  summer  and  autumn  months.  Al- 
though Phillotson  had  never  spoken  to  one^of  these  gen- 
tlemen, they  now  nobly  led  the  forlorn  hope  in  his  de- 
fence. The  body  included  two  cheap-jacks,  a  shooting- 
gallery  proprietor,  and  the  ladies  who  loaded  the  guns,  a 
pair  of  boxing-masters,  a  steam-roundabout  manager,  two 
travelling  broom-makers,  who  called  themselves  widows, 
a  gingerbread-stall  keeper,  a  swing-boat  owner,  and  a 
"  test-your-strength  "  man. 

This  generous  phalanx  of  supporters,  and  a  few  others 
of  independent  judgment,  whose  own  domestic  experi- 
ences had  been  not  without  vicissitude,  came  up  and 
warmly  shook  hands  with  Phillotson  ;  after  which  they 
expressed  their  thoughts  so  strongly  to  the  meeting  that 
issue  was  joined,  the.result  being  a  general  scuffle,  wherein 
a  blackboard  was  split,  three  panes  of  the  school-windows 
were  broken,  an  inkbottle  spilled  over  a  town-councillor's 
shirt-front,  and  some  black  eyes  and  bleeding  noses  given, 
one  of  which,  to  everybody's  horror,  was  the  venerable 
incumbent's,  owing  to  the  zeal  of  an  emancipated  chim- 
ney-sweep, who  took  the  side  of  Phillotson's  party.  When 
Phillotson  saw  the  blood  running  down  the  rector's  face 
he  deplored  almost  in  groans  the  untoward  and  degrading 
circumstances,  regretted  that  he  had  not  resigned  when 
called  upon,  and  went  home  so  ill  that  next  morning  he 
could  not  leave  his  bed. 

The  farcical  yet  melancholy  event  was  the  beginning 
of  a  serious  illness  for  him  ;  and  he  lay  in  his  lonely  bed 


•    ■-  AT   SHASTON  295 

in  the  pathetic  state  of  mind  of  a  middle-aged  man  who 
perceives  at  length  that  his  life,  intellectual  and  domestic, 
is  tending  to  failure  and  gloom.  Gillingham  came  to  see 
him  in  the  evenings,  and  on  one  occasion  mentioned 
Sue's  name. 

"  She  doesn't  care  anything  about  me  !"  said  Phillotson. 
"  Why  should  she  .''" 

"  She  doesn't  know  you  are  ill." 

"  So  much  the  better  for  both  of  us." 

"  Where  are  her  lover  and  she  living.'" 

"At  Melchester,  I  suppose  —  at  least,  he  was  living 
there  some  time  ago." 

When  Gillingham  reached  home  he  sat  and  reflected, 
and  at  last  wrote  an  anonymous  line  to  Sue,  on  the  bare 
chance  of  its  reaching  her,  the  letter  being  enclosed  in  an 
envelope  addressed  to  Jude  at  the  diocesan  capital.  Ar- 
riving at  that  place,  it  was  forwarded  to  Marygreen  in 
North  Wessex,  and  thence  to  Aldbrickham  by  the  only 
person  who  knew  his  present  address— the  widow  who 
had  nursed  his  aunt. 

Three  days  later,  in  the  evening,  when  the  sun  was 
going  down  in  splendor  over  the  lowlands  of  Blackmoor, 
and  making  the  Shaston  windows  like  tongues  of  fire  to 
the  eyes  of  the  rustics  in  that  Vale,  the  sick  man  fancied 
that  he  heard  somebody  come  to  the  house,  and  a  few 
minutes  after  there  was  a  tap  at  the  bedroom  door.  Phil- 
lotson did  not  speak ;  the  door  was  hesitatingly  opened, 
and  there  entered — Sue. 

She  was  in  light  spring  clothing,  and  her  advent  seemed 
ghostly — like  the  flitting  in  of  a  moth.  He  turned  his 
eyes  upon  her,  and  flushed,  but  appeared  to  check  his 
primary  impulse  to  speak. 

"I  have  no  business  here,"  she  said,  turning  her  fright- 
ened face  to  him.  "  But  I  heard  you  were  ill — very  ill  ; 
and — and  as  I  know  that  you  recognize  other  feelings  be- 
tween man  and  woman  than  physical  love,  I  have  come." 

"  I  am  not  very  ill,  my  dear  friend.     Only  unwell." 


296  JUDE  THE   OBSCURE 

"  I  didn't  know  that ;  and  I  am  afraid  that  only  a  severe 
ilhiess  would  have  justified  my  coming!" 

"  Yes.  .  .  .  yes.  And  I  almost  wish  you  had  not  come  ! 
It  is  a  little  too  soon — that's  all  I  mean.  Still,  let  us 
make  the  best  of  it.  You  haven't  heard  about  the  school, 
I  suppose  .'*" 

"  No  ;  what  about  it  ?" 

"  Only  that  I  am  going  away  from  here  to  another  place. 
The  managers  and  I  don't  agree,  and  we  are  going  to 
part — that's  all." 

Sue  did  not  for  a  moment,  either  now  or'  later,  suspect 
what  troubles  had  resulted  to  him  from  letting  her  go;  it 
never  once  seemed  to  cross  her  mind,  and  she  had  re- 
ceived no  news  whatever  from  Shaston.  They  talked  on 
slight  and  ephemeral  subjects,  and  when  his  tea  was 
brought  up  he  told  the  amazed  little  servant  that  a  cup 
was  to  be  set  for  Sue.  That  young  person  was  much 
more  interested  in  their  history  than  they  supposed,  and 
as  she  descended  the  stairs  she  lifted  her  eyes  and  hands 
in  grotesque  amazement.  While  they  sipped.  Sue  went 
to  the  window  and  thoughtfully  said,  "  It  is  such  a  beau- 
tiful sunset,  Richard." 

"  They  are  mostly  beautiful  from  here,  owing  to  the 
rays  crossing  the  mist  of  the  Vale.  But  I  lose  them  all,  as 
they  don't  shine  into  this  gloomy  corner  where  I  lie." 

"Wouldn't  you  like  to  see  this  particular  one?  It  is 
like  heaven  opened." 

"Ah,  yes!     But  I  can't." 

"I'll  help  you  to." 

"  No— the  bedstead  can't  be  shifted." 

"  But  see  how  I  mean." 

She  went  to  where  a  swing-glass  stood,  and  taking  it 
in  her  hands  carried  it  to  a  spot  by  the  window  where  it 
could  catch  the  sunshine,  moving  the  glass  till  the  beams 
were  reflected  into  Phillotson's  face. 

"There  ;  j'ou  can  see  the  great  red  sun  now  !"  she  said. 
"  And  I  am  sure  it  will  cheer  you — I  do  so  hope  it  will !" 


AT   SHASTON  297 

>■ 
^■^' 

She  spoke  with  a  child-like,  repentant  kindness,  as  if  she 
could  not  do  too  much  for  him. 

Phillotson  smiled  sadly.  "  You  are  an  odd  creature," 
he  murmured,  as  the  sun  glowed  in  his  eyes.  "  The  idea 
of  your  coming  to  see  me  after  what  has  passed  I" 

"Don't  let  us  go  back  upon  that!"  she  said,  quickly. 
"  I  have  to  catch  the  omnibus  for  the  train,  as  Jude 
doesn't  know  I  have  come ;  he  was  out  when  I  started, 
so  I  must  return  home  almost  directly.  Richard,  I  am  so 
very  glad  you  are  better.  You  don't  hate  me,  do  you  ? 
You  have  been  such  a  kind  friend  to  me." 

"  I  am  glad  to  know  you  think  so,"  said  Phillotson, 
huskily.     "  No  ;  I  don't  hate  you  !" 

It  grew  dusk  quickly  in  the  gloomy  room  during  their 
intermittent  chat,  and  when  candles  were  brought  and  it 
was  time  to  leave,  she  put  her  hand  in  his — or,  rather,  al- 
lowed it  to  flit  through  his,  for  she  was  significantly 
light  in  touch.  She  had  nearly  closed  the  door  when 
he  said,  "Sue!"  He  had  noticed  that,  in  turning  away 
from  him,  tears  were  on  her  face  and  a  quiver  in  her 
lip. 

It  was  bad  policy  to  recall  her ;  he  knew  it  while  he 
pursued  it.     But  he  could  not  help  it.    She  came  back. 

"  Sue,"  he  murmured,  "  do  you  wish  to  make  it  up,  and 
stay?     I'll  forgive  you, and  condone  everything  !" 

"Oh,  you  can't,  you  can't!"  she  said,  hastily.  "You 
can't  condone  it  now  !" 

"He  is  your  husband  now,  in  effect,  you  mean,  of 
course .''" 

"  You  may  assume  it.  He  is  obtaining  a  divorce  from 
his  wife  Arabella." 

"His  wife !  It  is  altogether  news  to  me  that  he  has  a 
wife." 

"  It  was  a  bad  marriage." 

"  Like  yours  ?" 

"Like  mine.  He  is  not  doing  it  so  much  on  his  own 
account  as  on  hers.     She  wrote  and  told  him  it  would  be 


298  JUDE  THE  OBSCURE 

a  kindness  to  her,  since  then  she  could  marry  and  live  re- 
spectably.    And  Jude  has  agreed." 

"A  wife.  ...  A  kindness  to  her.  Ah,  yes;  a  kindness 
to  her  to  release  her  altogether.  .  .  .  But  I  don't  like  the 
sound  of  it.     /  can  forgive,  Sue  !" 

"  No,  no !  You  can't  have  me  back,  now  I  have  been  so 
wicked — as  to  do  what  I  have  done  !" 

There  had  arisen  in  Sue's  face  that  incipient  fright  which 
showed  itself  whenever  he  changed  from  friend  to  hus- 
band, and  which  made  her  adopt  any  line  of  defence 
against  marital  feeling  in  him.  "  I  inust  go  now.  I'll 
come  again — may  I  }" 

"  I  don't  ask  you  to  go,  even  now.      I  ask  you  to  stay." 

"  I  thank  you,  Richard,  but  I  must.  As  you  are  not 
so  ill  as  I  thought,  I  ca7inot  stay  !" 

"  She's  his — his  from  lips  to  heel !"  said  Phillotson,  but 
so  faintly  that  in  closing  the  door  she  did  not  hear  it. 
The  dread  of  a  reactionary  change  in  the  school-master's 
sentiments,  coupled  perhaps  with  a  faint  shamefacedness 
at  letting  even  him  know  what  a  slipshod  lack  of  thor- 
oughness, from  a  man's  point  of  view,  characterized  her 
transferred  allegiance,  prevented  her  telling  him  of  her, 
thus  far,  incomplete  relations  with  Jude;  and  Phillotson 
lay  writhing  like  a  man  in  hell  as  he  pictured  the  prettily 
dressed,  maddening  compound  of  sympathy  and  averse- 
ness  who  bore  his  name,  returning  impatiently  to  the 
home  of  her  lover. 

Gillingham  was  so  interested  in  Phillotson's  affairs,  and 
so  seriously  concerned  about  him,  that  he  walked  up  the 
hill-side  to  Shaston  two  or  three  times  a  week,  although, 
there  and  back,  it  was  a  journey  of  nine  miles,  which  had 
to  be  performed  between  tea  and  supper,  after  a  hard 
day's  work  in  school.  When  he  called  on  the  next  occa- 
sion after  Sue's  visit  his  friend  was  down-stairs,  and  Gil- 
lingham noticed  that  his  restless  mood  had  been  sup- 
planted by  a  more  fixed  and  composed  one. 


AT   SHASTON  299 

if 

* ■• 

"She's  been  here  since  you  called  last,"  said  Phillotson. 

"  Not  Mrs.  Phillotson  ?" 

"Yes." 

"  Ah  !     You  have  made  it  up?" 

"  No.  .  .  .  She  just  came,  patted  my  pillow  with  her 
little  white  hand,  played  the  thoughtful  nurse  for  half  an 
hour,  and  went  away." 

"  Well— I'm  hanged  !     A  little  hussy  !" 

"  What  do  you  say  ?" 

"Oh — nothing!" 

"  What  do  you  mean  ?" 

"  I  mean,  what  a  tantalizing,  capricious  little  woman  ! 
If  she  were  not  your  wife — " 

"  She  is  not ;  she's  another  man's,  except  in  name  and 
law.  And  I  have  been  thinking — it  was  suggested  to  me 
by  a  conversation  I  had  with  her  —  that,  in  kindness  to 
her,  I  ought  to  dissolve  the  legal  tie  altogether,  which, 
singularly  enough,  I  think  I  can  do,  now  she  has  been 
back,  and  refused  my  request  to  stay,  after  I  said  I  had 
forgiven  her.  I  believe  that  fact  would  afford  me  oppor- 
tunity of  doing  it,  though  I  did  not  see  it  at  the  moment. 
What's  the  use  of  keeping  her  chained  on  to  me  if  she 
doesn't  belong  to  me  ?  I  know — I  feel  absolutely  certain — 
that  she  would  welcome  my  taking  such  a  step  as  the  great- 
est charity  to  her.  For  though  as  a  fellow-creature  she 
sympathizes  with,  and  pities  me,  and  even  weeps  for  me,  as 
a  husband  she  cannot  endure  me — she  loathes  me.  There's 
no  use  in  mincing  words;  she  loathes  me,  and  my  only 
manly  and  dignified  and  merciful  course  is  to  complete 
what  I  have  begun.  .  .  .  And  for  worldly  reasons,  too,  it 
will  be  better  for  her  to  be  independent.  I  have  hope- 
lessly ruined  my  prospects  because  of  my  decision  as  to 
what  was  best  for  us,  though  she  does  not  know  it ;  I  see 
only  dire  poverty  ahead  from  my  feet  to  the  grave,  for  I 
can  be  accepted  as  teacher  no  more.  I  shall  probably 
have  enough  to  do  to  make  both  ends  meet  during  the 
remainder  of  my  life,  now  my  occupation's  gone ;  and  I 


300  JUDE  THE  OBSCURE 

shall  be  better  able  to  bear  it  alone.  I  may  as  well  tell 
you  that  what  has  suggested  my  letting  her  go  is  some 
news  she  brought  me — the  news  that  Fawley  is  doing  the 
same." 

"  Oh,  he  had  a  spouse,  too  ?  A  queer  couple,  these 
lovers  !" 

"  Well — I  don't  want  your  opinion  on  that.  What  I 
was  going  to  say  is  that  my  liberating  her  can  do  her  no 
possible  harm,  and  will  open  up  a  chance  of  happiness  for 
her  which  she  has  never  dreamed  of  hitherto.  For  then 
they'll  be  able  to  marry,  as  they  ought  to  have  done  at 
first." 

Gillingham  did  not  hurry  to  reply.  "I  may  disagree 
with  your  motive,"  he  said,  gently,  for  he  respected  views 
he  could  not  share.  "  But  I  think  you  are  right  in  your 
determination — if  you  can  carry  it  out.  I  doubt,  however, 
if  you  can." 


Part  V 
AT  ALDBRICKHAM   AND   ELSEWHERE 


"  Thy  aerial  part,  and  all  the  fiery  parts  rohich  a7-e  vtingled  in 
thee,  though  by  nature  they  have  an  tip-ward  tendency,  still  in  obe- 
dience to  the  disposition  of  the  universe  they  are  overpowered  here 
in  the  compound  mass  the  body." — M.  ANTONINUS  (Long). 


i^ 


I 

How  Gillingham's  doubts  were  disposed  of  will  most 
quickly  appear  by  passing  over  the  series  of  dreary  months 
and  incidents  that  followed  the  events  of  the  last  chap- 
ter, and  coming  on  to  a  Sunday  in  the  February  of  the 
year  following. 

Sue  and  Jude  were  living  in  Aldbrickham,  in  precisely 
the  same  relations  that  they  had  established  between 
themselves  when  she  left  Shaston  to  join  him  the  year 
before.  The  proceedings  in  the  Law-Courts  had  reached 
their  consciousness  but  as  a  distant  sound,  and  an  occa- 
sional missiv^e,  which  they  hardly  understood. 

They  had  met,  as  usual,  to  breakfast  together  in  the 
little  house  with  Jude's  name  on  it,  that  he  had  taken  at 
fifteen  pounds  a  year,  with  three  -  pounds- ten  extra  for 
rates  and  taxes,  and  furnished  with  his  aunt's  ancient  and 
lumbering  goods,  which  had  cost  him  about  their  full 
value  to  bring  all  the  way  from  Marygrcen.  Sue  kept 
house,  and  managed  everything. 

As  he  entered  the  room  this  morning  Sue  held  up  a 
letter  she  had  just  received. 

.   "  Well,  and  what  is  it  about }"  he  said,  after  kissing 
her. 

"  That  the  decree  iii'si  in  the  case  of  Phillotson  versus 
Phillotson  and  Fawley,  pronounced  six  months  ago,  has 
just  been  made  absolute." 

"  Ah,"  said  Jude,  as  he  sat  down. 

The  same  concluding  incident  in  Jude's  suit  against 
Arabella  had  occurred  about  a  month  or  two  earlier. 
Both  cases  had  been  too  insignificant  to  be  reported  in 


304  JUDE   THE  OBSCURE 

the  papers,  further  than  by  name  in  a  long  list  of  other 
undefended  cases. 

"  Now  then,  Sue,  at  any  rate,  you  can  do  what  you 
like !"     He  looked  at  his  sweetheart  curiously. 

"Are  we  —  you  and  I  —  just  as  free  now  as  if  we  had 
^---^;;;;;^^»  never  married  at  all  ?" 

,  ^        "Just  as  free— except,  I  believe,  that  a  clergyman  may 

object  personally  to  re-marry  you,  and  hand  the  job  on  to 
somebody  else." 

"But  I  wonder — do  you  think  it  is  really  so  with  us.-" 
I  know  it  is  generally.  But  I  have  an  uncomfortable 
feeling  that  my  freedom  has  been  obtained  under  false 
pretences !" 

"How?" 

"  Well,  if  the  truth  about  us  had  been  known,  the 
decree  wouldn't  have  been  pronounced.  It  is  only,  is  it, 
because  we  have  made  no  defence,  and  have  led  them 
into  a  false  supposition  ?  Therefore  is  my  freedom  law- 
ful, however  proper  it  may  be.''" 

"Well  —  why  did  you  let  it  be  under  false  pretences? 
You  have  only  yourself  to  blame,"  he  said,  mischievously. 

"Jude— don't !  You  ought  not  to  be  touchy  about  that 
still.     You  must  take  me  as  I  am." 

"Very  well,  darling,  so  I  will.  Perhaps  you  were  right. 
As  to  your  question,  we  were  not  obliged  to  prove  any- 
thing. That  was  their  business.  Anyhow,  we  are  living 
together." 

"  Yes  ;  though  not  in  their  sense." 

"One  thing  is  certain,  that  however  brought  about,  a 
marriage  is  dissolved  when  it  is  dissolved.  There  is  this 
advantage  in  being  poor,  obscure  people  like  us  —  that 
these  things  are  done  for  us  in  a  rough-and-ready  fashion. 
It  was  the  same  with  me  and  Arabella.  I  was  afraid  her 
criminal  second  marriage  would  have  been  discovered, 
and  she  punished  ;  but  nobody  took  any  interest  in  her — 
nobody  inquired,  nobody  suspected  it.  If  we'd  been 
patented  nobilities  we  should  have  had  infinite  trouble, 


-    V  AT    ALDBRICKHAM    AND    ELSEWHERE  305 

and  days  and  weeks  would  have  been  spent  in  investiga- 
tions." 

By  degrees  Sue  acquired  her  lover's  cheerfulness  at  the 
sense  of  freedom,  and  proposed  that  they  should  take  a 
walk  in  the  fields,  even  if  they  had  to  put  up  with  a  cold 
dinner  on  account  of  it.  Jude  agreed,  and  Sue  went  up- 
stairs and  prepared  to  start,  putting  on  a  joyful  colored 
gown  in  observance  of  her  liberty;  seeing  which,  Jude  put 
on  a  lighter  tie. 

"Now  we'll  strut  arm-in-arm,"  he  said,  "  like  any  other 
engaged  couple.     We've  a  legal  right  to." 

They  rambled  out  of  the  town,  and  along  a  path  over 
the  low-lying  lands  that  bordered  it,  though  these  were 
frosty  now,  and  the  extensive  seed -fields  were  bare  of 
color  and  produce.  The  pair,  however,  were  so  absorbed 
in  their  own  situation  that  their  surroundings  were  little 
in  their  consciousness. 

"  Well,  my  dearest,  the  result  of  all  this  is  that  we  can 
marry  after  a  decent  interval." 

"  Yes,  I  suppose  we  can,"  said  Sue,  without  enthu- 
siasm. 

•■  And  aren't  we  going  to  .''" 

"  I  don't  like  to  say  no,  dear  Jude,  but  I  feel  just  the 
same  about  it  now  as  I  have  done  all  along.  I  have  just 
the  same  dread  lest  an  iron  contract  should  extinguish  v:o_ur 
tenderness  for  niC-arid_jTiine  for  you,  as  it  did  between  our 
unfortunate  parents." 

"Still,  what  can  we  do.'  I  do  love  you,  as  you  know, 
Sue." 

"  I  know  it  abundantly.  But  I  think  1  would  much 
rather  go  on  living  always  as  lovers,  as  we  are  living  now, 
and  only  meeting  by  day.  It  is  so  much  sweeter — for  the 
woman  at  least,  and  when  she  is  sure  of  the  man.  And 
henceforward  we  needn't  be  so  particular  as  we  have  been 
about  appearances." 

"Our  experiences  of  matrimony  with  others  have  not 
been  encouraging,  I  own,"  said  he,  with  some  gloom; 
20 


3o6  JUDE  THE    OBSCURE 

"  either  owing  to  our  own  dissatisfied,  unpractical  natures, 
or  by  our  misfortune.     But  we  two — " 

"  Sliould  be  two  dissatisfied  ones  lini<ed  together,  which 
would  be  twice  as  bad  as  before. ...  I  thinlc  I  should  begin 
to  be  afraid  of  you,  Jude,  the  moment  you  had  contracted 
to  cherish  me  under  a  Government  stamp,  and  I  was  li- 
censed to  be  loved  on  the  premises  by  you.  Ugh,  how 
horrible  and  sordid !  Although,  as  you  are,  free,  I  trust 
you  more  than  any  other  man  in  the  world." 

"  No,  no  ;  don't  say  I  should  change  !"  he  expostulated  ; 
yet  there  was  misgiving  in  his  own  voice  also. 

"  Apart  from  ourselves,  and  our  unhappy  peculiarities, 
it  is  foreign  to  a  man's  nature  to  go  on  loving  a  person 
when  he  is  told  that  he  must  and  shall  be  that  person's 
lover.  There  would  be  a  much  likelier  chance  of  his 
doing  it  if  he  were  told  not  to  love.  If  the  marriage 
ceremony  consisted  in  an  oath  and  signed  contract  be- 
tween the  parties  to  cease  loving  from  that  day  forward, 
in  consideration  of  personal  possession  being  given,  and 
to  avoid  each  other's  society  as  much  as  possible  in  pub- 
lic, there  would  be  more  loving  couples  than  there  are 
now.  Fancy  the  secret  meetings  between  the  perjuring 
husband  and  wife,  the  denials  of  having  seen  each  other, 
the  clambering  in  at  bedroom  windows,  and  the  hiding  in 
closets  !     There'd  be  little  cooling  then." 

"Yes;  but  admitting  this,  or  something  like  it,  to  be 
true,  you  are  not  the  only  one  in  the  world  to  see  it,  dear 
little  Sue.  People  go  on  marrying  because  they  can't  re- 
sist natural  forces,  although  many  of  them  may  know  per- 
fectly well  that  they  are  possibly  buying  a  month's  pleasure 
with  a  life's  discomfort.  No  doubt  my  father  and  moth- 
er, and  your  father  and  mother,  saw  it,  if  they  at  all  re- 
sembled us  in  habits  of  observation.  But  then  they  went 
and  married  just  the  same,  because  they  had  ordinary 
passions.  But  you,  Sue,  are  such  a  phantasmal,  bodiless 
fr'e,  one  who  —  if  you'll  allow  me  to  say  it  —  has  so 
little  animal  passion  in  you,  that  you  can  act  upon  reason 


J^t  AT    ALDBRICKHAM    AND    ELSEWHERE  307 

in    the  matter,  when  we  poor  unfortunate  wretches   of 
grosser  substance  can't." 

"  Well,"  she  sighed,  "  you've  owned  that  it  would  prob- 
ably end  in  misery  for  us.  And  I  am  not  so  exceptional 
a  woman  as  you  think.  Fewer  women  like  marriage 
than  you  suppose,  only  they  enter  into  it  for  the  dignity 
it  is  assumed  to  confer,  and  the  social  advantages  it  gains 
them  sometimes — a  dignity  and  an  advantage  that  I  am 
quite  willing  to  do  without." 

Jude  fell  back  upon  his  old  complaint — that,  intimate 
as  they  were,  he  had  never  once  had  from  her  an  honest, 
candid  declaration  that  she  loved  or  could  love  him.  "  I 
really  fear  sometimes  that  you  cannot,"  he  said,  with  a 
dubiousness  approaching  anger.  "And  you  are  so  reti- 
cent. I  know  that  women  are  taught  by  other  women 
that  they  must  never  admit  the  full  truth  to  a  man.  But 
the  highest  form  of  affection  is  based  on  full  sincerity  on 
both  sides.  Not  being  men,  these  women  don't  know 
that  in  looking  back  on  those  he  has  had  tender  rela- 
tions with,  a  man's  heart  returns  closest  to  her  who  was 
the  soul  of  truth  in  her  conduct.  The  better  class  of 
man,  even  if  caught  by  airy  affectations  of  dodging  and 
parrying,  is  not  retained  by  them.  A  Nemesis  attends 
the  woman  who  plays  the  game  of  elusiveness  too  often, 
in  the  utter  contempt  for  her  that,  sooner  or  later,  her 
old  admirers  feel;  under  which  they  allow  her  to  go  un- 
lamented  to  her  grave." 

Sue,  who  was  regarding  the  distance,  had  acquired  a 
guilty  look ;  and  she  suddenly  replied,  in  a  tragic  voice  : 
"  I  don't  think  I  like  you  to-day  so  well  as  I  did,  Jude  !" 

"Don't  you.'     Why?" 

"  Oh,  well — you  are  not  nice — too  sermony.  Though  I 
suppose  I  am  so  bad  and  worthless  that  I  deserve  the  ut- 
most rigor  of  lecturing  !" 

"  No,  you  are  not  bad.  You  are  a  dear.  But  as  slip- 
pery as.  an  eel  when  I  want  to  get  a  confession  from 
you." 


308  JUDE   THE   OBSCURE 

"  Oh  yes,  I  am  bad,  and  obstinate,  and  all  sorts  !  It  is 
no  use  your  pretending  I  am  not!  People  who  are  good 
don't  want  scolding  as  I  do.  .  .  .  But  now  that  I  have  no- 
body but  you,  and  nobody  to  defend  me,  it  is  7'ery  hard 
that  I  mustn't  have  my  own  way  in  deciding  how  I'll  live 
with  you,  and  whether  I'll  be  married  or  no  !" 

"  Sue,  my  own  comrade  and  sweetheart,  I  don't  want 
to  force  you  either  to  marry  or  to  do  the  other  thing — of 
course  I  don't !  It  is  too  wicked  of  you  to  be  so  pettish  ! 
Now  we  won't  say  any  more  about  it,  and  go  on  just  the 
same  as  we  have  done  ;  and  during  the  rest  of  our  walk 
we'll  talk  of  the  meadows  only,  and  the  floods,  and  the 
prospect  of  the  farmers  this  coming  year." 

After  this  the  subject  of  marriage  was  not  mentioned 
by  them  for  several  days,  though  living  as  they  were,  with 
only  a  landing  between  them,  it  was  constantly  in  their 
minds.  Sue  was  assisting  Jude  very  materially  now.  He 
had  latterly  occupied  himself  on  his  own  account  in 
working  and  lettering  head-stones,  which  he  kept  in  a 
little  yard  at  the  back  of  his  little  house,  where  in  the 
intervals  of  domestic  duties  she  marked  out  the  letters 
full  size  for  him,  and  blacked  them  in  after  he  had  cut 
them.  It  was  a  lower  class  of  handicraft  than  were  his 
former  performances  as  a  cathedral  mason,  and  his  only 
patrons  were  the  poor  people  who  lived  in  his  own  neigh- 
borhood, and  knew  what  a  cheap  man  this  "  Jude  Fawley : 
Monumental  Mason  "  (as  he  called  himself  on  his  front 
door),  was  to  employ  for  the  simple  memorials  they  re- 
quired for  their  dead.  But  he  seemed  more  independent 
than  before,  and  it  was  the  only  arrangement  under  which 
Sue,  who  particularly  wished  to  be  no  burden  on  him, 
could  render  any  assistance. 


II 

It  was  an  evening  at  the  end  of  the  month,  and  Jude 
had  just  returned  home  from  hearing  a  lecture  on  ancient 
history  in  the  public  hall  not  far  off.  When  he  entered, 
Sue,  who  had  been  keeping  in-doors  during  his  absence, 
laid  out  supper  for  him.  Contrary  to  custom,  she  did 
not  speak.  Jude  had  taken  up  some  illustrated  paper, 
which  he  perused,  till,  raising  his  eyes,  he  saw  that  her 
face  was  troubled. 

"  Are  you  depressed.  Sue.-'"  he  said. 

She  paused  a  moment.  "  I  have  a  message  for  you," 
she  answered. 

"  Somebody  has  called  }" 

"  Yes.  A  woman."  Sue's  voice  quavered  as  she  spoke, 
and  she  suddenly  sat  down  from  her  preparations,  laid 
her  hands  in  her  lap,  and  looked  into  the  fire.  "  I  don't 
know  whether  I  did  right  or  not,"  she  continued.  "  I 
said  you  were  not  at  home,  and  when  she  said  she  would 
wait,  I  said  I  thought  you  might  not  be  able  to  see  her." 

"  Why  did  you  say  that,  dear.?  I  suppose  she  wanted 
a  head-stone.     Was  she  in  mourning.'" 

"  No.  She  wasn't  in  mourning,  and  she  didn't  want  a 
head  stone  ;  and  I  thought  you  wouldn't  see  her."  Sue 
looked  critically  and  imploringly  at  him. 

"  But  who  was  she  ?     Didn't  she  say  ?" 

"  No.  She  wouldn't  give  her  name.  But  I  know  who 
she  was — I  think  I  do  !     It  was  Arabella!" 

"Heaven  save  us!  What  should  Arabella  come  for.? 
What  made  you  think  it  was  she.?" 

"  Oh,  I  can  hardly  tell.     But  I   know   it  was!     I   feel 


3IO  JUDE  THE   OBSCURE 

perfectly  certain  it  was— by  the  light  in  her  eyes  as  she 
looked  at  me.     She  was  a  fleshy,  coarse  woman." 

"  Well,  I  should  not  have  called  Arabella  coarse  ex- 
actly, except  in  speech,  though  she  may  be  getting  so  by 
this  time  under  the  duties  of  the  public-house.  She  was 
rather  handsome  when  I  knew  her." 

"  Handsome  !     But  yes  ;  so  she  is  !" 

"  I  think  I  heard  a  quiver  in  your  little  mouth.  Well, 
waiving  that,  as  she  is  nothing  to  me,  and  virtuously  mar- 
ried to  another  man,  why  should  she  come  troubling  us.'" 

"  Are  you  sure  she's  married  ?  Have  you  definite  news 
of  it?" 

"  No,  not  definite  news.  But  that  was  why  she  asked 
me  to  release  her.  She  and  the  man  both  wanted  to  lead 
a  proper  life,  as  I  understood." 

"Oh,  Jude,  it  was,  it  ?(jas  Arabella!"  cried  Sue,  cover- 
ing her  eyes  with  her  hand.  "  And  I  am  so  miserable ! 
It  seems  such  an  ill-omen,  whatever  she  may  have  come 
for.     You  could  not  possibly  see  her,  could  you.'" 

"I  don't  really  think  I  could.  It  would  be  so  very 
painful  to  talk  to  her  now — for  her  as  much  as  for  me. 
However,  she's  gone.  Did  she  say  she  would  come 
again  ?" 

"  No.     But  she  went  away  very  reluctantly." 

Sue,  whom  the  least  thing  upset,  could  not  eat  any 
supper,  and  when  Jude  had  finished  his  he  prepared  to 
go  to  bed.  He  had  no  sooner  raked  out  the  fire,  fastened 
the  doors,  and  got  to  the  top  of  the  stairs,  than  there  came 
a  knock.  Sue  instantly  emerged  from  her  room,  which 
she  had  but  just  entered. 

"There  she  is  again!"  Sue  whispered,  in  appalled  ac- 
cents. 

"  How  do  you  know.'" 

"  She  knocked  like  that  last  time." 

They  listened,  and  the  knocking  came  again.  No  serv- 
ant was  kept  in  the  house,  and  if  the  summons  were  to 
be  responded  to  one  of  them  would  have  to  do  it  in  per- 


>-    ^  AT    ALDBRICKHAM    AND    ELSEWHERE  3U 

son.      "  I'll  open  a  window,"  said  Jude.     "  Whoever  it  is 
cannot  be  expected  to  be  let  in  at  this  time." 

He  accordingly  went  into  his  bedroom  and  lifted  the 
sash.  The  jihsC!ire_jtreet  of  early  retiring  work-people 
was  empty  from  end  to  end  save  of  one  figure — that  of  a 
woman  walking  up  and  down  by  the  lamp  a  few  yards 
off. 

"  Who's  there  .'*"  he  asked. 

"  Is  that  Mr.  Fawley.-*"  came  up  from  the  woman,  in  a 
voice  which  was  unmistakably  Arabella's. 

Jude  replied  that  it  was. 

"  Is  it  she.?"  asked  Sue  from  the  door,  with  lips  apart. 

"  Yes,  dear,"  said  Jude.  "  What  do  you  want,  Ara- 
bella.''"  he  inquired. 

"I  beg  your  pardon,  Jude,  for  disturbing  you,"  said  Ara- 
bella, humbly.  "  But  I  called  earlier.  I  wanted  particu- 
larly to  see  you  to-night,  if  I  could.  I  am  in  trouble,  and 
have  nobody  to  help  me  !" 

"  In  trouble,  are  you  .''" 

"Yes." 

There  was  a  silence.  An  inconvenient  sympathy  seemed 
to  be  rising  in  Jude's  breast  at  the  appeal.  "  But  aren't 
you  married.'*"  he  said. 

Arabella  hesitated.  "  No,  Jude,  I  am  not,"  she  returned. 
"He  wouldn't,  after  all.  And  I  am  in  great  difficulty.  I 
hope  to  get  another  situation  as  barmaid  soon.  But  it 
takes  time,  and  I  really  am  in  great  distress,  because  of 
tlic  sudden  responsibility  that's  been  sprung  upon  me 
from  Australia;  or  I  wouldn't  trouble  you — believe  me,  I 
wouldn't.     I  want  to  tell  you  about  it." 

Sue  remained  at  gaze,  in  painful  tension,  hearing  every 
word,  but  speaking  none. 

"You  are  not  really  in  want  of  money,  Arabella?"  he 
asked,  in  a  distinctly  softened  tone. 

"  I  have  enough  to  pay  for  the  night's  lodging  I  have 
obtained,  but  barely  enough  to  take  me  back  again." 

"  Where  arc  you  living  ?" 


312  JUDE  THE   OBSCURE 

"  In  London  still."  She  was  about  to  give  the  address, 
but  she  said,  "  I  am  afraid  somebody  miy  hear,  so  I  don't 
like  to  call  out  particulars  of  myself  so  loud.  If  you 
could  come  down  and  walk  a  little  way  with  me  towards 
the  Prince  Inn,  where  I  am  staying  to-night,  I  would 
explain  all.     You  may  as  well,  for  old  time's  sake.'-' 

"  Poor  thing  !  I  must  do  her  the  kindness  of  hearing 
what's  the  matter,  I  suppose,"  said  Jude,  in  much  perple.\- 
ity.  "  As  she's  going  back  to-morrow  it  can't  make  much 
difTerence." 

"  But  you  can  go  and  see  her  to-morrow,  Jude  !  Don't 
go  now,  Jude  ! '  came  in  plaintive  accents  from  the  door- 
way. "  Oh,  it  is  only  to  entrap  you  ;  I  know  it  is,  as  she 
did  before!  Don't,  don't  go,  dear!  She  is  such  a  low- 
passioned  woman — I  can  see  it  in  her  shape,  and  hear  it 
in  her  voice  !" 

"  But  I  shall  go,"  said  Jude.  "  Don't  attempt  to  de- 
tain me,  Sue.  God  knows  I  love  her  little  enough  now, 
but  I  don't  want  to  be  cruel  to  her."  He  turned  to  the 
stairs. 

"  But  she's   not  your  wife  !"    cried    Sue,    distractedly. 
And  I—" 

"  And  you  are  not  either,  dear,  yet,"  said  Jude. 

"  Oh,  but  are  you  going  to  her  ?  Don't !  Stay  at  home  ! 
Please,  please  stay  at  home,  Jude,  and  not  go  to  her,  now 
she's  not  your  wife  any  more  than  I !" 

"Well,  she  is,  rather  more  than  you,  come  to  that,"  he 
said,  taking  his  hat  determinedly.  "  I've  wanted  you  to 
be,  and  I've  waited  with  the  patience  of  Job,  and  I  don't 
see  that  I've  got  anything  by  my  self-denial.  I  shall  cer- 
tainly give  her  something,  and  hear  what  it  is  she  is  so 
anxious  to  tell  me  ;  no  man  could  do  less." 

There  was  that  in  his  manner  which  she  knew  it  would 
be  futile  to  oppose.  She  said  no  more,  but,  turning  to 
her  room  as  meekly  as  a  martyr,  heard  him  go  down-stairs, 
unbolt  the  door,  and  close  it  behind  him.  With  a  wom- 
an's disregard  of  her  dignity  when  in  the  presence  of  no- 


^J'    '  AT   ALDBRICKHAM   AND    ELSEWHERE  313 

body  but  herself,  she  also  trotted  down,  sobbing  articu- 
lately as  she  went.  She  listened.  She  knew  exactly  how 
far  it  was  to  the  inn  that  Arabella  had  named  as  her 
lodging.  It  would  occupy  about  seven  minutes  to  get 
there  at  an  ordinary  walking  pace;  seven  to  come  back 
again.  If  he  did  not  return  in  fourteen  minutes  he  would 
have  lingered.  She  looked  at  the  clock.  It  was  twenty- 
five  minutes  to  eleven.  He  might  enter  the  inn  with  Ara- 
bella, as  they  would  reach  it  before  closing  time;  she 
might  get  him  to  drink  with  her;  and  Heaven  only  knew 
what  disasters  would  befall  him  then. 

In  a  still  suspense  she  waited  on.  It  seemed  as  if  the 
whole  time  had  nearly  elapsed,  when  the  door  was  opened 
again,  and  Jude  appeared. 

Sue  gave  a  little  ecstatic  cry.  "  Oh,  I  knew  I  could 
trust  you  !     How  good  you  are — "  she  began. 

"  I  can't  find  her  anywhere  in  this  street,  and  I  went 
out  in  my  slippers  only.  She  has  walked  on,  thinking 
I've  been  so  hard-hearted  as  to  refuse  her  requests  entire- 
ly, poor  woman.  I've  come  back  for  my  boots,  as  it  is  be- 
ginning to  rain." 

"  Oh,  but  why  should  you  take  such  trouble  for  a  wom- 
an who  has  served  you  so  badly !"  said  Sue,  in  a  jealous 
burst  of  disappointment. 

"  But,  Sue,  she's  a  woman,  and  I  once  cared  for  her  ;  and 
one  can't  be  a  brute  in  such  circumstances." 

"  She  isn't  your  wife  any  longer!"  exclaimed  Sue,  pas- 
sionately excited.  "You  mustiit  go  out  to  find  her!  It 
isn't  right !  You  cant  join  her,  now  she's  a  stranger  to 
you.  How  can  you  forget  such  a  thing,  my  dear,  dear 
one ! 

"She  seems  much  the  same  as  ever — an  erring,  careless, 
unreflecting  fellow-creature,"  he  said,  continuing  to  pull  on 
his  boots.  "  What  those  legal  fellows  have  been  playing 
at  in  London  makes  no  difference  in  my  real  relations  to 
her.  If  slie  was  my  wife  while  she  was  away  in  Australia 
with  another  husband,  she's  my  wife  now." 


314  JUDE  THE  OBSCURE 

"  But  she  wasn't !  That's  just  what  I  hold  !  There's 
the  absurdity!  Well,  you'll  come  straight  back,  after  a 
few  minutes,  won't  you,  dear?  She  is  too  low,  too  coarse 
for  you  to  talk  to  long,  Jude,  and  was  always!" 

"  Perhaps  I  am  coarse,  too,  worse  luck  !  I  have  the 
germs  of  every  human  infirmity  in  me,  I  verily  believe- 
that  was  why  I  saw  it  was  so  preposterous  of  me  to  think 
of  being  a  curate.  1  have  cured  myself  of  drunkenness,  I 
think  ;  but  I  never  know  in  what  new  form  a  suppressed 
vice  will  break  out  in  me !  I  do  love  you,  Sue,  though  I 
have  danced  attendance  on  you  so  long  for  such  poor  re- 
turns !  All  that's  best  and  noblest  in  me  loves  you,  and 
your  freedom  from  everything  that's  gross  has  elevated 
me,  and  enabled  me  to  do  what  I  should  never  have 
dreamed  myself  capable  of,  or  any  man,  a  year  or  two  ago. 
It  is  all  very  well  to  preach  about  self-control,  and  the 
wickedness  of  coercing  a  woman.  But  I  should  just  like 
a  few  virtuous  people  who  have  condemned  me  in  the 
past,  about  Arabella  and  other  things,  to  have  been  in  my 
tantalizing  position  with  you  through  these  late  weeks  ! — 
they'd  believe,  I  think,  that  I  have  exercised  some  little 
restraint  in  always  giving  in  to  your  wishes — living  here 
in  one  house,  and  not  a  soul  between  us." 

"Yes,  you  have  been  good  to  me,  Jude;  I  know  you 
have,  my  dear  protector." 

"Well,  Arabella  appeals  to  me.  I  must  go  out  and 
speak  to  her.  Sue,  at  least  !" 

"  I  can't  say  any  more!  Oh,  if  you  must,  you  must!" 
she  said,  bursting  out  into  sobs  that  seemed  to  tear  her 
heart.  "  I  have  nobody  but  you,  Jude,  and  you  are  de- 
serting me!  I  didn't  know  you  were  like  this — I  can't 
bear  it,  I  can't!  If  she  were  yours  it  would  be  diflfer- 
cnt !" 

"  Or  if  you  were." 

"  Very  well,  then — if  I  must,  I  must.  Since  you  will  have 
it  so,  I  agree  !  I  will  be.  Only  I  didn't  mean  to !  And  I 
didn't  want  to  marry  again,  either  !  .  .  .  But,  yes — I  agree. 


f  ^  AT   ALDBRICKHAM    AND    ELSEWHERE  315 

I  agree !  I  ought  to  have  known  that  you  would  con- 
quer in  the  long-run,  living  like  this  !" 

She  ran  across  and  flung  her  arms  round  his  neck.  "  I 
am  not  a  cold-natured,  sexless  creature,  am  I,  for  keeping 
you  at  such  a  distance  ?  I  am  sure  you  don't  think  so! 
Wait  and  see  !    I  do  belong  to  you,  don't  I  ?     I  give  in." 

"  And  I'll  arrange  for  our  marriage  to-morrow,  or  as 
soon  as  ever  you  wish." 

"  Yes,  Jude." 

"Then  I'll  let  her  go,"  said  he,  embracing  Sue  softly. 
'■  I  do  feel  that  it  would  be  unfair  to  you  to  see  her,  and 
perhaps  unfair  to  her.  She  is  not  like  you,  my  darling, 
and  never  was :  it  is  only  bare  justice  to  say  that.  Don't 
cry  any  more.  There,  and  there,  and  there  !"  He  kissed 
her  on  one  side,  and  on  the  other,  and  in  the  middle,  and 
rebolted  the  front  door. 

The  next  morning  it  was  wet. 

"  Now,  dear,"  said  Jude,  gayly,  at  breakfast,  "as  this  is 
Saturday,  I  mean  to  call  about  the  banns  at  once,  so  as  to 
get  the  first  publishing  done  to-morrow,  or  we  shall  lose 
a  week.    Banns  will  do  ?    We  shall  save  a  pound  or  two." 

Sue  absently  agreed  to  banns.  But  her  mind  for  the 
moment  was  running  on  something  else.  A  glow  had 
passed  away  from  her,  and  depression  sat  upon  her  features. 

"  I  feel  I  was  wickedly  selfish  last  night!"  she  murmured. 
"  It  was  sheer  unkindness  in  me — or  worse — to  treat  Ara- 
bella as  I  did.  I  didn't  care  about  her  being  in  trouble, 
and  what  she  wished  to  tell  you !  Perhaps  it  was  really 
.something  she  was  justified  in  telling  you.  That's  some 
more  of  my  badness,  I  suppose  !  Love  has  its  own  dark 
morality  when  rivalry  enters  in — at  least,  mine  has,  if  other 
people's  hasn't.  ...  I  wonder  how  she  got  on  ?  I  hope 
she  reached  the  inn  all  right,  poor  woman." 

"  Oh  yes  ;  she  got  on  all  right,"  said  Jude,  placidly. 

"  I  hope  she  wasn't  shut  out,  and  that  she  hadn't  to  walk 
the  streets  in  the  rain.     Do  you  mind  my  putting  on  my 


3l6  JUDE  THE  OBSCURE 

water-proof  and  going  to  see  if  she  got  in  ?  I've  been 
thinking  of  her  all  the  morning." 

"  Well — is  it  necessary  ?  You  haven't  the  least  idea  how 
Arabella  is  able  to  shift  for  herself.  Still,  darling,  if  you 
want  to  go  and  inquire  you  can." 

There  was  no  limit  to  the  strange  and  unnecessary  pen- 
ances which  Sue  would  meekly  undertake  when  in  a  con- 
trite mood  ;  and  this  going  to  see  all  sorts  of  extraordi- 
nary persons  whose  relation  to  her  was  precisely  of  a  kind 
that  would  hav^e  made  other  people  shun  them,  was  her 
instinct  ever,  so  that  the  request  did  not  surprise  him. 

"And  when  you  come  back,"  he  added,  "I'll  be  ready 
to  go  about  the  banns.     You'll  come  with  me  ?" 

Sue  agreed,  and  went  off  under  cloak  and  umbrella,  let- 
ting Jude  kiss  her  freely,  and  returning  his  kisses  in  a  way 
she  had  never  done  before.  Times  had  decidedly  changed. 
"The  bird  is  caught  at  last!"  she  said,  a  little  sadness 
showing  in  her  smile. 

"  No,  only  nested,"  he  assured  her. 

She  walked  along  the  muddy  street  till  she  reached  the 
public- house  mentioned  by  Arabella,  which  was  not  so 
very  far  off.  She  was  informed  that  Arabella  had  not  yet 
left,  and  in  doubt  how  to  announce  herself  so  that  her 
predecessor  in  Jude's  affections  would  recognize  her,  she 
sent  up  word  that  a  friend  from  Spring  Street  had  called, 
naming  the  place  of  Jude's  residence.  §he  was  asked  to 
step  up-stairs,  and  on  being  shown  into  a  room,  found  that 
it  was  Arabella's  bedroom,  and  that  the  latter  had  not  yet 
risen.  She  halted  on  the  turn  of  her  toe  till  Arabella 
cried  from  the  bed,  "Come  in  and  shut  the  door,"  which 
Sue  accordingly  did. 

Arabella  lay  facing  the  window,  and  did  not  at  once 
turn  her  head  ;  and  Sue  was  wicked  enough,  despite  her 
penitence,  to  wish  for  a  moment  that  Jude  could  behold 
her  forerunner  now,  with  the  daylight  full  upon  her.  She 
may  have  seemed  handsome  enough  in  profile  under  the 
lamps,  but  a  frowsiness  was  apparent  this  morning  ;  and 


i~^  AT   ALDBRICKHAM    AND    ELSEWHERE  317 

the  sight  of  her  own  fresh  charms  in  the  looking-glass 
made  Sue's  manner  bright,  till  she  reflected  what  a  meanly- 
sexual  emotion  this  was  in  her,  and  hated  herself  for  it. 

"  I've  just  looked  in  to  see  if  you  got  back  comfortably 
last  night,  that's  all,"  she  said,  gently.  "  I  was  afraid  after- 
wards that  you  might  have  met  with  any  mishap." 

"Oh,  how  stupid  this  is!  I  thought  my  visitor  was — 
your  friend  —  your  husband  —  Mrs.  Fawley,  as  I  suppose 
you  call  yourself  ?"  said  Arabella,  flinging  her  head  back 
upon  the  pillows  with  a  disappointed  toss,  and  ceasing  to 
retain  the  dimple  she  had  just  taken  the  trouble  to  pro- 
duce. 

"Indeed  I  don't,"  said  Sue. 

"  Oh,  I  thought  you  might  have,  even  if  he's  not  legally 
yours.    Decency  is  decency,  any  hour  of  the  twenty-four." 

"  I  don't  know  what  you  mean,"  said  Sue,  stiffly.  "  He 
is  mine,  if  you  come  to  that !" 

"  He  wasn't  yesterday." 

Sue  colored  roseate,  and  said,  "  How  do  you  know.^" 

"  From  your  manner  when  you  talked  to  me  at  the 
door.  Well,  my  dear,  you've  been  quick  about  it,  and  I 
expect  my  visit  last  night  helped  it  on — ha-ha  !  But  I 
don't  want  to  get  him  away  from  you." 

Sue  looked  out  at  the  rain,  and  at  the  dirty  toilet-cover, 
and  at  the  detached  tail  of  Arabella's  hair  hanging  on  the 
looking-glass,  just  as  it  had  done  in  Jude's  time,  and 
wished  she  had  not  come.  In  the  pause  there  was  a 
knock  at  the  door,  and  the  chamber-maid  brought  in  a 
telegram  for  "  Mrs.  Cartlett." 

Arabella  opened  it  as  she  lay,  and  her  ruffled  look  dis- 
appeared. 

"  I  am  much  obliged  to  you  for  your  anxiety  about  me," 
she  said,  blandly,  when  the  maid  had  gone;  "  but  it  is  not 
necessary  you  should  feel  it.  My  man  finds  he  can't  do 
without  me  after  all,  and  agrees  to  stand  l^y  the  promise, 
to  marry  again  over  here,  that  he  has  made  me  all  along. 
See  here.     This  is  in  answer  to  one  from  me."    She  held 


3l8  JUDE  THE  OBSCURE 

out  the  telegram  for  Sue  to  read,  but  Sue  did  not  take  it. 
"  He  asks  me  to  come  back.  His  little  corner  public  in 
Lambeth  would  go  to  pieces  without  me,  he  says.  But 
he  isn't  going  to  knock  me  about  when  he  has  had  a 
drop,  any  more  after  we  are  spliced  by  English  law  than 
before.  .  .  .  As  for  you,  I  should  coax  Jude  to  take  me 
before  the  parson  straight  off,  and  have  done  with  it,  if  I 
were  in  your  place.     I  say  it  as  a  friend,  my  dear." 

"  He's  waiting  to,  any  day,"  returned  Sue,  with  frigid 
pride. 

"  Then  let  him,  in  Heaven's  name.  Life  with  a  man 
is  more  businesslike  after  it,  and  money  matters  work 
better.  And  then,  you  see,  if  you  have  rows,  and  he  turns 
you  out-of-doors,  you  can  get  the  law  to  protect  j^ou,  which 
you  can't  otherwise,  unless  he  half  runs  you  through  with 
a  knife,  or  cracks  your  noddle  with  a  poker.  And  if  he 
bolts  away  from  you — I  say  it  friendly,  as  woman  to  wom- 
an, for  there's  never  any  knowing  what  a  man  med  do — 
you'll  have  the  sticks  o'  furniture,  and  won't  be  looked 
upon  as  a  thief.  I  shall  marry  my  man  over  again,  now 
he's  willing,  as  there  was  a  little  flaw  in  the  first  cere- 
mony. In  my  telegram  last  night,  which  this  is  an  answer 
to,  I  told  him  I  had  almost  made  it  up  with  Jude  ;  and 
that  frightened  him,  I  expect  !  Perhaps  I  should  quite 
have  done  it  if  it  hadn't  been  for  you,"  she  said,  laughing  ; 
"and  then  how  different  our  histories  might  have  been 
from  to-day !  Never  such  a  tender  fool  as  Jude  is  if  a 
woman  seems  in  trouble,  and  coaxes  him  a  bit.  Just  as 
he  used  to  be  about  birds  and  things.  However,  as  it 
happens,  it  is  just  as  well  as  if  I  had  made  it  up,  and  I 
forgive  you.  And,  as  I  say,  I'd  advise  you  to  get  the  busi- 
ness legally  done  as  soon  as  possible.  You'll  find  it  an 
{iwful  bother  later  on  if  you  don't." 

"  I  have  told  you  he  is  asking  me  to  marry  him — to 
make  our  natural  marriage  a  legal  one,"  said  Sue,  with 
yet  more  dignity.  "  It  was  quite  by  my  wish  that  he 
didn't  the  moment  I  was  free." 


i^  AT   ALDBRICKHAM    AND    ELSEWHERE  319 

"Ah,  yes — you  are  a  oneyer  too,  like  myself,"  said 
Arabella,  eying  her  visitor  with  humorous  criticism. 
"  Bolted  from  your  first,  didn't  you,  like  me  ?" 

"  Good  morning  !— I  must  go,"  said  Sue,  hastily. 

"  And  I,  too,  must  up  and  oflf !"  replied  the  other, 
springing  out  of  bed  so  suddenly  that  the  soft  parts  of 
her  person  shook.  Sue  jumped  aside  in  trepidation. 
"Lord,  I  am  only  a  woman  —  not  a  six-foot  sojer  !  .  .  . 
Just  a  moment,  dear,"  she  continued,  putting  her  hand 
on  Sue's  arm.  "  I  really  did  want  to  consult  Jude  on  a 
little  matter  of  business,  as  I  told  him.  I  came  about 
that  more  than  anything  else.  Would  he  run  up  to  speak 
to  me  at  the  station  as  I  am  going?  You  think  not. 
Well,  I'll  write  to  him  about  it.  I  didn't  want  to  write  it — 
but  never  mind,  I  will." 


Ill 

When  Sue  reached  home  Jude  was  awaiting  her  at  the 
door  to  take  the  initial  step  towards  their  marriage.  She 
clasped  his  arm,  and  they  went  along  silently  together,  as 
true  comrades  ofttimes  do.  He  saw  that  she  was  pre- 
occupied, and  forbore  to  question  her. 

"Oh,  Jude,  I've  been  talking  to  her,"  she  said  at  last. 
"  I  wish  I  hadn't !  And  yet  it  is  best  to  be  reminded  of 
things." 

"  I  hope  she  was  civil." 

"Yes.  I — I  can't  help  liking  her— just  a  little  bit! 
She's  not  an  ungenerous  nature;  and  I  am  so  glad 
her  difficulties  have  all  suddenly  ended."  She  ex- 
plained how  Arabella  had  been  summoned  back,  and 
would  be  enabled  to  retrieve  her  position.  "  I  was  refer- 
ring to  our  old  question.  What  Arabella  has  been  say- 
ing to  me  has  made  me  feel  more  than  ever  how  hope- 
lessly vulgar  an  institution  legal  marriage  is — a  sort  of 
•trap  to  catch  a  man.  I  can't  bear  to  think  of  it.  I  wish 
I  hadn't  promised  to  let  you  put  up  the  banns  this  morn- 
ing." 

"Oh,  don't  mind  me.  Any  time  will  do  for  me.  I 
thought  you  might  like  to  get  it  over  quickly,  now." 

"  Indeed,  I  don't  feel  any  more  anxious  now  than  I  did 
before.  Perhaps  with  any  other  man  I  might  be  a  little 
anxious ;  but  among  the  very  few  virtues  possessed  by 
your  family  and  mine,  dear,  I  think  I  may  set  stanchness. 
So  I  am  not  a  bit  frightened  about  losing  you,  now  I 
really  am  yours  and  you  really  are  mine.  In  fact,  I  am 
easier  in  my  mind  than  I  was,  for  my  conscience  is  clear 


*—♦  AT    ALDBRICKHAM    AND    ELSEWHERE  32I 

about  Richard,  who  now  has  a  right  to  his  freedom.     I 
felt  we  were  deceiving  him  before." 

"  Sue,  you  seem  when  you  are  like  this  to  be  one  of  the 
women  of  some  grand  old  civilization,  whom  I  used  to 
read  about  in  my  by-gone,  wasted,  classical  days,  rather 
than  a  denizen  of  a  mere  Christian  country.  I  almost 
expect  you  to  say  at  these  times  that  you  have  just  been 
talking  to  some  friend  whom  you  met  in  the  Via  Sacra 
about  the  latest  news  of  Octavia  or  Livia,  or  have  been 
listening  to  Aspasia's  eloquence,  or  have  been  watching 
Praxiteles  chiselling  away  at  his  latest  Venus,  while 
Phryne  made  complaint  that  she  was  tired  of  posing." 

They  had  now  reached  the  house  of  the  parish-clerk. 
Sue  stood  back,  while  her  lover  went  up  to  the  door. 
His  hand  was  raised  to  knock,  when  she  said,  "  Jude!" 

He  looked  round. 

*'  Wait  a  minute,  would  you  mind  .-'" 

He  came  back  to  her. 

"Just  let  us  think,"  she  said,  timidly.  "I  had  such  a 
horrid  dream  one  night.  .  .  .  And  Arabella — " 

"What  did  Arabella  say  to  you.'"  he  asked. 

"  Oh,  she  said  that  when  people  were  tied  up  you  could 
get  the  law  of  a  man  better  if  he  beat  you — and  how, 
when  couples  quarrelled. . . .  Jude,  do  you  think  that  when 
you  must  have  me  with  you  by  law,  we  shall  be  so  happy 
as  we  are  now.?  The  men  and  women  of  our  family  arc 
very  generous  when  everything  depends  upon  their  good- 
will, but  they  always  kick  against  compulsion.  Don't 
you  dread  the  attitude  that  insensibly  arises  out  o£,lega 
obligation  }  Don't  you  think  it  is  destructive  to  a  passion 
xv}2jy»<=i^Q^'nrQ_]sitsj>rntuitousness  ?" 

"  Upon  my  worSTlove,  you  are  beginning  to  frighten 
me,  too,  with  all  this  foreboding!  Well, -let's  go  back 
and  think  it  over." 

Her  face  brightened.  "  Yes — so  we  will !"  said  she. 
And  they  turned  from  the  clerk's  door.  Sue  taking  his 
arm  and  murmuring  as  they  walked  on  homeward  : 


322  JUDE  THE  OBSCURE 

' '  Can  you  keep  the  bee  from  ranging, 
Or  the  ring-dove's  neck  from  changing? 
No!     Nor  fetter'd  love  ..." 

They  thought  it  over,  or  postponed  thinking.  Cer- 
tainly they  postponed  action,  and  seemed  to  live  on 
in  a  dreamy  paradise.  At  the  end  of  a  fortnight  or 
three  weeks  matters  remained  unadvanced,  and  no  banns 
were  announced  to  the  ears  of  any  Aldbrickham  congre- 
gation. 

Whilst  they  were  postponing  and  postponing  thus,  a 
letter  and  a  newspaper  arrived  before  breakfast  one 
morning  from  Arabella.  Seeing  the  handwriting,  Jude 
went  up  to  Sue's  room  and  told  her,  and  as  soon  as  she 
was  dressed  she  hastened  down.  Sue  opened  the  news- 
paper; Jude  the  letter.  After  glancing  at  the  paper  she 
held  across  the  first  page  to  him  with  her  finger  on  a 
paragraph ;  but  he  was  so  absorbed  in  his  letter  that  he 
did  not  turn  a  while. 

"  Look  !"  said  she. 

He  looked  and  read.  The  paper  was  one  that  circu- 
lated in  South  London  only,  and  the  marked  advertise- 
ment was  simply  the  announcement  of  a  marriage  at  St. 
John's  Church,  Waterloo  Road,  under  the  names,  "  Cart- 
LETT — DONN  " ;  the  united  pair  being  Arabella  and  the 
inn-keeper. 

"  Well,  it  is  satisfactory,"  said  Sue,  complacently. 
"  Though,  after  this,  it  seems  rather  low  to  do  likewise, 
and  I  am  glad —  However,  she  is  provided  for  now  in  a 
way,  I  suppose,  whatever  her  faults,  poor  thing  !  It  is 
nicer  that  we  are  able  to  think  that,  than  to  be  uneasy 
about  her.  I  ought,  too,  to  write  to  Richard  and  ask 
him  how  he  is  getting  on,  perhaps  .-*" 

But  Jude's  attention  was  still  absorbed.  Having 
merely  glanced  at  the  announcement,  he  said,  in  a  dis- 
turbed voice:  "Listen  to  this  letter.  What  shall  I  say 
or  do  ? 


Iw*  AT   ALDBRICKHAM   AND   ELSEWHERE  323 

"'The  Threb  Horns,  Lambeth. 
"  '  Dear  Jude  (I  won't  be  so  distant  as  to  call  you  Mr.  Faw- 
ley), — I  send  to-day  a  newspaper,  from  which  useful  document 
you  will  learn  that  I  was  married  over  again  to  Cartlett  last  Tues- 
day. So  that  business  is  settled  right  and  tight  at  last.  But  what 
I  write  about  more  particular  is  that  private  affair  I  wanted  to 
speak  to  you  on  when  I  came  down  10  Aldbrickham.  I  couldn't 
very  well  tell  it  to  your  lady  friend,  and  should  much  have  liked 
to  let  you  know  it  by  word  of  mouth,  as  I  could  have  explained 
better  than  by  letter.  The  fact  is,  Jude,  that,  though  I  have 
never  informed  you  before,  there  was  a  boy  born  of  our  marriage, 
eight  months  after  I  left  you,  when  I  was  at  Sydney,  living  with 
my  father  and  mother.  All  that  is  easily  provable.  As  I  had 
separated  from  you  before  I  thought  such  a  thing  was  going  to 
happen,  and  I  was  over  there,  and  our  quarrel  had  been  sharp,  I 
did  not  think  it  convenient  to  write  about  the  birth.  I  was  then 
looking  out  for  a  good  situation,  so  my  parents  took  the  child, 
and  he  has  been  with  them  ever  since.  That  was  why  I  did  not 
mention  it  when  I  met  you  in  Christminster,  nor  at  the  law  pro- 
ceedings. He  is  now  of  an  intelligent  age,  of  course,  and  my 
mother  and  father  have  lately  written  to  say  that,  as  they  have 
rather  a  hard  struggle  over  there,  and  I  am  settled  comfortably 
here,  they  don't  see  why  they  should  be  encumbered  with  the 
child  any  longer,  his  parents  being  alive.  I  would  have  him  with 
me  here  in  a  moment,  but  he  is  not  old  enough  to  be  of  any  use 
in  the  bar,  nor  will  be  for  years  and  years,  and,  naturally,  Cartlett 
might  think  him  in  the  way.  They  have,  however,  packed  him 
off  to  me  in  charge  of  some  friends,  who  happened  to  be  coming 
home,  and  I  must  ask  you  to  take  him  when  he  arrives,  for  I 
don't  know  what  to  do  with  him.  He  is  lawfully  yours,  that  I 
solemnly  swear.  If  anybody  says  he  isn't,  call  them  brimstone  liars, 
for  my  sake.  Whatever  1  may  have  done  before  or  afterwards, 
I  was  honest  to  you  from  the  time  we  were  married  till  I  went 
away,  and  I  remain,  yours,  &c.,  Arabella  Cartlett.'" 

Sue's  look  was  one  of  dismay.  "  What  will  you  do, 
dear.'"  she  asked,  faintly. 

Jude  did  not  reply,  and  Sue  watched  him  anxiously, 
with  heavy  breaths. 


324  JUDE   THE  OBSCURE 

"  It  hits  me  hard  !"  said  he,  in  an  under-voice.  "  It  may 
be  true !  I  can't  make  it  out.  Certainly,  if  his  age  is  ex- 
actly what  it  ought  to  be.  ...  I  cannot  think  why  she 
didn't  tell  me  when  I  met  her  at  Christminster,  and  came 
on  here  that  evening  with  her!  .  .  .  Ah — I  do  remember 
now  that  she  said  something  about  having  a  thing  on  her 
mind  that  she  would  like  me  to  know,  if  ever  we  lived 
together  again." 

"  The  poor  child  seems  to  be  wanted  by  nobody  !"  Sue 
replied,  andTTer  eyes  filledT^  "^^ 

Jude  had  by  this  time  come  to  himself.  "  What  a  view 
of  life  he  must  have,  mine  or  not  mine !"  he  said.  "  I 
must  say  that,  if  I  were  better  off,  I  should  not  stop  for 
a  moment  to  think  whose  he  might  be.  I  would  take 
him  and  bring  him  up.  The  beggarly  question  of  parent- 
age— what  is  it,  after  all  .'*  What  does  it  matter,  when 
you  come  to  think  of  it,  whether  a  child  is  yours  by  blood 
or  not.'  All  the  little  ones  of  our  time  are  collectively 
the  children  of  us  adults  of  the  time,  and  entitled  to  our 
general  care.  That  excessive  regard  of  parents  for  their 
own  children,  and  their  dislike  of  other  people's  is,  like 
class- feeling,  patriotism,  save-your-own- soul -ism,  and 
other  virtues,  a  mean  exclusiveness  at  bottom." 

Sue  jumped  up  and  kissed  Jude  with  passionate  devo- 
tion. "  Yes — so  it  is,  dearest  !  And  we'll  have  him  here. 
And  if  he  isn't  yours  it  makes  it  all  the  better.  I  do 
hope  he  isn't — though  perhaps  I  ought  not  to  feel  quite 
that!  If  he  isn't,  I  should  like  so  much  for  us  to  have 
him  as  an  adopted  child  !  " 

"  Well,  you  must  assume  about  him  what  is  most  pleas- 
ing to  you,  my  curious  little  comrade  !"  he  said.  "  I  feel 
that,  anyhow,  I  don't  like  to  leave  the  unfortunate  little 
fellow  to  neglect.  Just  think  of  his  life  in  a  Lambeth 
pot-house,  and  all  its  evil  influences,  with  a  parent  who 
doesn't  want  him,  and  has,  indeed,  hardly  seen  him,  and 
a  step-father  who  doesn't  know  him.  '  Let  the  day  per- 
ish wherein  I  was  born,  and    the   night  in  which   it  was 


^^  AT   ALDBRICKHAM   AND   ELSEWHERE  325 

said,  There  is  a  man  child  conceived  !'  That's  what  the 
boy  —  my  boy,  perhaps — will  find  himself  saying  before 
long!" 

"Oh  no!" 

"  As  I  was  the  petitioner,  I  am  really  entitled  to  his 
custody,  I  suppose." 

"Whether  or  no,  we  must  have  him.  I  see  that.  I'll 
do  the  best  I  can  to  be  a  mother  to  him,  and  we  can  af- 
ford to  keep  him  somehow.  I'll  work  harder.  I  wonder 
when  he'll  arrive  ?" 

"  In  the  course  of  a  few  weeks,  I  suppose." 

"  I  wish —  When  shall  we  have  courage  to  marry, 
Jude?" 

"  Whenever  you  have  it,  I  think  I  shall.  It  remains 
with  you  entirely,  dear.  Only  say  the  word,  and  it's 
done." 

*'  Before  the  boy  comes  ?" 

"  Certainly." 

"  It  would  make  a  more  natural  home  for  him,  per- 
haps," she  murmured. 

Jude  thereupon  wrote  in  purely  formal  terms  to  re- 
quest that  the  boy  should  be  sent  on  to  them  as  soon  as 
he  arrived,  making  no  remark  whatever  on  the  surprising 
nature  of  Arabella's  information,  nor  vouchsafing  a  single 
word  of  opinion  on  the  boy's  paternity,  nor  on  whether, 
had  he  known  all  this,  his  conduct  towards  her  would 
have  been  quite  the  same. 

In  the  down  train  that  was  timed  to  reach  Aldbrick- 
ham  station  about  ten  o'clock  the  next  evening,  a  small, 
pale  child's  face  could  be  seen  in  the  gloom  of  a  third- 
class  carriage.  He  had  large,  frightened  eyes,  and  wore 
a  white  woollen  cravat,  over  which  a  key  was  suspended 
round  his  neck  by  a  piece  of  common  string,  the  key  at- 
tracting attention  by  its  occasional  shine  in  the  lamp- 
light. In  the  band  of  his  hat  his  half-ticket  was  stuck. 
His  eyes  remained  mostly  fixed  on  the  back  of  the  seat 


326  JUDE  THE  OBSCURE 

opposite,  and  never  turned  to  the  window,  even  when  a 
station  was  reached  and  called.  On  the  other  seat  were 
two  or  three  passengers,  one  of  them  a  working-woman, 
who  held  a  basket  on  her  lap,  in  which  was  a  tabby  kit- 
ten. The  woman  opened  the  cover  now  and  then,  where- 
upon the  kitten  would  put  out  its  head,  and  indulge  in 
playful  antics.  At  these  the  fellow-passengers  laughed, 
except  the  solitary  boy  bearing  the  key  and  ticket,  who, 
regarding  the  kitten  with  his  saucer  eyes,  seemed  mutely 
to  say:  "All  laughing  come^  From'  misapprehension. 
Rightly  looked  at,  there  is  no  laughable  thing  under  the 
sun." 

Jccasionally,  at  a  stoppage,  the  guard  would  look  into 
the  compartment  and  say  to  the  boy,  "  All  right,  my  man. 
Your  box  is  safe  in  the  van."  The  boy  would  say,  "  Yes," 
without  animation,  would  try  to  smile,  and  fail. 

He  was  Age  masquerading  as  Juvenility,  and  doing  it 
so  badly  that  his  real  self  showed  through  crevices.  A 
ground  swell  from  ancient  years  of  night  seemed  now 
and  then  to  lift  the  child  in  this  his  morning-life,  when 
his  face  took  a  back  view  over  some  great  Atlantic  of 
time,  and  appeared  not  to  care  about  what  it  saw. 

When  the  other  travellers  closed  their  eyes,  which  they 
did  one  by  one— even  the  kitten  curling  itself  up  in  the 
basket,  weary  of  its  too  circumscribed  play— the  boy  re- 
mained just  as  before.  He  then  seemed  to  be  doubly 
awake,  like  an  enslaved  and  dwarfed  Divinity,  sitting 
passive,  and  regarding  his  companions  as  if  he  saw  their 
whole  rounded  lives  rather  than  their  immediate  figures. 

This  was  Arabella's  boy.  With  her  usual  carelessness, 
she  had  postponed  writing  to  Jude  about  him  till  the  eve 
of  his  landing,  when  she  could  absolutely  postpone  no 
longer,  though  she  had  known  for  weeks  of  his  approach- 
ing arrival,  and  had,  as  she  truly  said,  visited  Aldbrick- 
ham  mainly  to  reveal  the  boy's  existence  and  his  near 
home-coming  to  Jude.  This  very  day,  on  which  she  had 
received  her  former  husband's  answer  at  some  time  in 


Xw^  AT   ALDBRICKHAM   AND   ELSEWHERE  327 

the  afternoon,  the  child  reached  the  London  Docks,  and 
the  family  in  whose  charge  he  had  come  having  put  him 
into  a  cab  for  Lambeth,  and  directed  the  cabman  to  his 
mother's  house,  bade  him  good-bye,  and  went  their  way. 

On  his  arrival  at  the  Three  Horns,  Arabella  had  looked 
him  over  with  an  expression  that  was  as  good  as  saying, 
"  You  are  very  much  what  I  expected  you  to  be,"  had 
given  him  a  good  meal,  a  little  money,  and,  late  as  it  was 
getting,  despatched  him  to  Jude  by  the  next  train,  wish- 
ins  her  husband  Cartlett,  who  was  out,  not  to  see  him. 

The  train  reached  Aldbrickham,  and  the  boy  was  de- 
posited on  the  lonely  platform  beside  his  box.  The 
collector  took  his  ticket,  and,  with  a  meditative  sense  of 
the  unfitness  of  things,  asked  him  where  he  was  going  by 
himself  at  that  time  of  night  ? 

"  Going  to  Spring  Street,"  said  the  little  one,  impas- 
sively. 

"  Why,  that's  a  long  way  from  here  ;  a'most  out  in  the 
country ;  and  the  folks  will  be  gone  to  bed." 

"  I've  got  to  go  there." 

"  You  must  have  a  fly  for  your  box." 

"  No.     I  must  walk." 

"  Oh,  well,  you'd  better  leave  your  box  here  and  send 
for  it.  There's  a  'bus  goes  half-way,  but  you'll  have  to 
walk  the  rest." 

"  I  am  not  afraid." 

"  Why  didn't  your  friends  come  to  meet  'ee  ?" 

"  I  suppose  they  didn't  know  I  was  coming." 

"  Who  is  your  friends  ?" 

"  Mother  didn't  wish  me  to  say." 

"  All  I  can  do,  then,  is  to  take  charge  of  this.  Now 
walk  as  fast  as  you  can." 

Saying  nothing  further,  the  boy  came  out  into  the 
street,  looking  round  to  see  th^t_aabody  iQlIowed  or  ob- 
served^ him.  When  "he^tadWalked  some  litlTe  distance, 
he  askeT  for  the  street  of  his  destination.  He  was  told 
to  go  straight  on,  quite  into  the  outskirts  of  the  place. 


328  JUDE  THE  OBSCURE 

The  child  fell  into  a  steady,  mechanical  creep,  which 
had  in  it  an  impersonal  quality — the  movement  of  the 
wave,  or  of  the  breeze,  or  of  the  cloud.  He  followed  his 
directions  literally,  without  an  inquiring  gaze  at  any- 
thing. It  could  have  been  seen  that  the  boy's  ideas  of 
life  were  different  from  those  of  the  local  boys.  Children 
begin  with  detail,  and  learn  up  to  the  general ;  they  begin 
with  the  contiguous,  and  gradually  comprehend  the  uni- 
versal. The  boy  seemed  to  have  begun  with  the  generals 
of  life,  and  never  to  have  concerned  himself  with  the  par- 
tigulars.-— T£)  him  the  houses,  the  willows,  the  obscure 
fields  beyond,  were  apparently  regarded  not  as  brick  resi- 
dences, pollards,  meadows,  but  as  human  dwellings  in 
the  abstract,  vegetation,  and  the  wide,  dark  world. 

He  found  the  way  to  the  little  lane,  andToTDcked  at  the 
door  of  Jude's  house.  Jude  had  just  retired  to  bed,  and 
Sue  was  about  to  enter  her  chamber  adjoining,  when  she 
heard  the  knock  and  came  down. 

"  Is  this  where  father  lives.''"  asked  the  child. 

"Who?" 

"  Mr.  Fawley,  that's  his  name." 

Sue  ran  up  to  Jude's  room  and  told  him,  and  he  hurried 
down  as  soon  as  he  could,  though  to  her  impatience  he 
seemed  long. 

"  What — is  it  he — so  soon  ?"  she  asked,  as  Jude  came. 

She  scrutinized  the  child's  features,  and  suddenly  went 
away  into  the  little  sitting-room  adjoining.  Jude  lifted 
the  boy  to  a  level  with  himself,  keenly  regarded  him  with 
gloomy  tenderness,  and  telling  him  he  would  have  been 
met  if  they  had  known  of  his  coming  so  soon,  set  him 
provisionally  in  a  chair,  while  he  went  to  look  for  Sue, 
whose  supersensitiveness  was  disturbed,  as  he  knew.  He 
found  her  in  the  dark,  bending  over  an  arm-chair.  He 
enclosed  her  with  his  arm,  and,  putting  his  face  by  hers, 
whispered,  "  What's  the  matter.^" 

"What  Arabella  says  is  true  —  true!  I  see  you  in 
him  I" 


iS  AT   ALDBRICKHAM   AND   ELSEWHERE  329 


"Well,  that's  one  thing  in  my  life  as  it  should  be,  at 
any  rate." 

"  But  the  other  half  of  him  is—s/ie  /  And  that's  what 
I  can't  bear  !  But  I  ought  to— I'll  try  to  get  used  to  it ; 
yes,  I  ought!" 

"  Jealous  little  Sue  !  I  withdraw  all  remarks  about 
your  sexlessness.  Never  mind.  Time  may  right  things. 
.  .  .  And  Sue,  darling,  I  have  an  idea!  We'll  educate 
and  train  him  with  a  view  to  the  University.  What  I 
couldn't  accomplish  in  my  own  person  perhaps  I  can 
carry  out  through  him.  They  are  making  it  easier  for 
poor  students  now,  you  know." 

"  Oh,  you  dreamer  !"  said  she,  and,  holding  his  hand,  re- 
turned to  the  child  with  him.  The  boy  looked  at  her  as 
she  had  looked  at  him.  "  Is  it  you  who's  my  rca/  mother 
at  last.?"  he  inquired. 

"Why.?     Do  I  look  like  your  father's  wife.?" 

"  Well,  yes  ;  'cept  he  seems  fond  of  you,  and  you  of  him. 
Can  I  call  you  mother.?" 

Then  a  yearning  look  came  over  the  child,  and  he  be- 
gan to  cry.  Sue  thereupon  could  not  refrain  from  in- 
stantly doing  likewise,  being  a  harp  which  the  least  wind 
of  emotion  from  another's  heart  could  make  to  vibrate  as 
readily  as  a  radical  stir  in  her  own. 

"  You  may  call  me  mother  if  you  wish  to,  my  poor 
dear,"  she  said,  bending  her  cheek  against  bis  to  hide  her 
tears. 

"  What's  this  round  your  neck?"  asked  Jude,  with  af- 
fected calmness. 

"  The  key  of  my  box  that's  at  the  station.' 

They  bustled  about  and  got  him  some  supDer,  and 
made  him  up  a  temporary  bed,  where  he  soon  fell  asleep. 
Both  went  and  looked  at  him  as  he  lay. 

"  He  called  you  mother  two  or  three  times  be/ore  he 
dropped  oflf,"  murmured  Jude.  "  Wasn't  it  odd  that  he 
should  have  wanted  to  !" 

"  Well,  it  was  significant,"  said   Sue.      "  There's  more 


I 


; 


^.-^l  1^ 


^t' 


330  JUDE  THE  OBSCURE 

/'"^  for  us  to  think  about  in  that  one  little  hungry  heart  than 
in  all  the  stars  of  the  sky.  ...  I  suppose,  dear,  we  tnus^ 
pluck  up  courage,  and  get  that  ceremony  over  ?  It  is  no 
use  struggling  against  the  current,  and  I  feel  myself  get- 
ting intertwined  with  my  kind.  Oh,  Jude,  you'll  lov^e  me 
dearly,  won't  you,  afterwards .''  I  do  want  to  be  kind  to 
this  child,  and  to  be  a  mother  to  him  ;  and  our  adding 
the  legal  form  to  our  marriage  might  make  it  easier  for 
me." 


i^ 


IV 

Their  next  and  second  attempt  thereat  was  more  de- 
liberately made,  though  it  was  begun  on  the  morning  fol- 
lowing the  singular  child's  arrival  at  their  home. 

Him  they  found  to  be  in  the  habit  of  sitting  silent,  his 
quaint  and  weird  face  set,  and  his  eyes  resting  on  things 
they  did  not  see  in  the  substantial  world. 

"  His  face  is  like  the  tragic  mask  of  Melpomene,"  said 
Sue.     "  What  is  your  name,  dear.-*     Did  you  tell  us?" 

"  Little  Father  Time  is  what  they  always  called  me — it 
is  a  nickname — because  I  look  so  aged,  they  say." 

"And  you  talk  so,  too,"  said  Sue,  tenderly.  "It  is 
strange,  Jude,  that  these  preternaturally  old  boys  almost 
always  come  from  new  countries .''  But  what  were  you 
christened  .''" 

"  I  never  was." 

"  Why  was  that  }" 

"  Because,  if  I  died  in  damnation,  'twould  save  the  ex- 
pense of  a  Christian  funeral." 

"Oh,  your  name  is  not  Jude,  then?"  said  his  father, 
with  some  disappointment. 

The  boy  shook  his  head.     "  Never  heerd  on  it." 

"Of  course  not,"  said  Sue,  quickly,  "since  she  was 
hating  you  all  the  time." 

"  We"ll  have  him  christened,"  said  Jude  ;  and,  privately, 
to  Sue.  "The  day  we  are  married."  Yet  the  advent  of 
the  child  disturbed  him. 

Their  position  lent  them  shyness,  and  having  an  im- 
pression that  a  marriage  at  a  Superintendant  Registrar's 
office  was  more  private  than  an  ecclesiastical  one,  they 


33-  JUDE   THE   OBSCURE 

decided  to  avoid  a  church  this  time.  Both  Sue  and  Jude 
together  went  to  the  office  of  the  district  to  give  notice  : 
they  had  become  such  companions  that  they  could  hard- 
ly do  anything  of  importance  except  in  each  other's  com- 
pany. 

Jude  Fawley  signed  the  form  of  notice,  Sue  looking 
over  his  shoulder  and  watching  his  hand  as  it  traced  the 
words.  As  she  read  the  four-square  undertaking,  never 
before  seen  by  her,  into  which  her  own  and  Jude's  names 
were  inserted,  and  by  which  that  very  volatile  essence, 
their  love  for  each  other,  was  supposed  to  be  made  per- 
manent, her  face  seemed  to  grow  painfully  apprehensive. 
"  Names  and  Surnames  of  the  Parties  "  (they  were  to  be 
parties  now,  not  lovers,  she  thought).  "  Condition  "  (a 
horrid  idea).  "  Rank  or  Occupation  " — "  Age  " — "  Dwell- 
ing at"—"  Length  of  Residence" — "  Church  or  Building 
in  which  the  Marriage  is  to  be  solemnized  " — "  District 
and  County  in  which  the  Parties  respectively  dwell." 

"  It  spoils  the  sentiment,  doesn't  it,"  she  said,  on  their 
way  home,  "  It  seems  making  a  more  sordid  business  of 
it  even  than  signing  the  contract  in  a  vestry.  There  is  a 
little  poetry  in  a  church.  But  we'll  try  to  get  through 
with  it,  dearest,  now." 

"  We  will.  '  For  what  man  is  he  that  hath  betrothed 
a  wife  and  hath  not  taken  her  ?  Let  him  go  and  return 
unto  his  house,  lest  he  die  in  the  battle,  and -another  man 
take  her.'     So  said  the  Jewish  law-giver." 

"  How  you  know  the  Scriptures,  Jude  !  You  really 
ought  to  have  been  a  parson.  I  can  only  quote  profane 
writers." 

During  the  interval  before  the  issuing  of  the  certificate. 
Sue,  in  her  housekeeping  errands,  sometimes  walked  past 
the  office,  and  furtively  glancing  in,  saw  affixed  to  the  wall 
the  notice  of  the  purposed  clinch  to  their  union.  She 
could  not  bear  its  aspect.  Coming  after  her  previous  ex- 
perience of  matrimony,  all  the  romance  of  their  attach- 
ment seemed  to  be  starved  away  by  placing  her  present 


i-^  AT   ALDBRICKHAM   AND   ELSEWHERE  333 

case  in  the  same  category.  She  was  usually  leading  lit- 
tle Father  Time  by  the  hand,  and  fancied  that  people 
thought  him  hers,  and  regarded  the  intended  ceremony 
as  the  patching  up  of  an  old  error. 

Meanwhile  Jude  decided  to  link  his  present  with  his 
past  in  some  slight  degree  by  inviting  to  the  wedding  the 
only  person  remaining  on  earth  who  was  associated  with 
his  early  life  at  Marygreen — the  aged  widow,  Mrs.  Edlin, 
who  had  been  his  great-aunt"s  friend  and  nurse  in  her 
last  illness.  He  hardly  expected  that  she  would  come  ; 
but  she  did,  bringing  singular  presents,  in  the  form  of 
apples,  jam,  brass  snuffers,  an  ancient  pewter- dish,  a 
warming-pan,  and  an  enormous  bag  of  goose-feathers 
towards  a  bed.  She  was  allotted  the  spare  room  in  Jude's 
house,  whither  she  retired  early,  and  where  they  could 
hear  her  through  the  ceiling  below,  honestly  saying  the 
Lord's  Prayer  in  a  loud  voice,  as  the  Rubric  directed. 

As,  however,  she  could  not  sleep,  and  discovered  that 
Sue  and  Jude  were  still  sitting  up — it  being,  in  fact,  only 
ten  o'clock — she  dressed  herself  again,  and  came  down  ; 
and  they  all  sat  by  the  fire  till  a  late  hour.  Father  Time 
included  ;  though,  as  he  never  spoke,  they  were  hardly 
conscious  of  him. 

"Well,  I  hain't  set  against  marrying  as  your  great-aunt 
was,"  said  the  widow.  "  And  I  hope  'twill  be  a  jocund 
wedding  for  ye  in  all  respects  this  time.  Nobody  can 
hope  it  more,  knowing  what  I  do  of  your  families,  which 
is  more,  I  suppose,  than  anybody  else  now  living.  For 
they  have  been  unlucky  that  way,  God  knows." 

Sue  breathed  uneasily. 

"  They  was  always  good-hearted  people,  too — wouldn't 
kill  a  fly  if  they  knowed  it,"  continued  the  wedding-guest. 
"  But  things  happened  to  thwart  em,  and  if  everything 
wasn't  vitty  they  were  upset.  No  doubt  that's  how  he 
that  the  tale  is  told  of  came  to  do  what  'a  did — if  he  were 
one  of  your  family." 

"  What  was  that  }"  said  Jude. 


334  JUDE  THE  OBSCURE 

"  Well,  that  tale,  ye  know — he  that  was  gibbeted  just 
on  the  brow  of  the  hill  by  the  Brown  House — not  far  from 
the  milestone  between  Marygreen  and  Alfredston,  where 
the  other  road  branches  ofT.  But,  Lord,  it  was  in  my 
grandfather's  time  ;  and  it  medn'  have  been  one  of  your 
folks  at  all." 

"  I  know  where  the  gibbet  is  said  to  have  stood,  very 
well,"  murmured  Jude.  "  But  I  never  heard  of  this. 
What — did  this  man — my  ancestor  and  Sue's — kill  his 
wife.'" 

"  'Twer  not  that  exactly.  She  ran  away  from  him,  with 
their  child,  to  her  friends  ;  and  while  she  was  there  the 
child  died.  He  wanted  the  body,  to  bury  it  where  his 
people  lay,  but  she  wouldn't  give  it  up.  Her  husband 
then  came  in  the  night  with  a  cart,  and  broke  into  the 
house  to  steal  the  cof!in  away  ;  but  he  was  catched,  and 
being  obstinate,  wouldn't  tell  what  he  broke  in  for.  They 
brought  it  in  burglary,  and  that's  why  he  was  hanged  and 
gibbeted  on  Brown  House  Hill.  His  wife  went  mad  after 
he  was  dead.  But  it  medn'  be  true  that  he  belonged  to 
ye  more  than  to  me." 

A  small,  slow  voice  rose  from  the  shade  of  the  fireside, 
as  if  out  of  the  earth  :  "  If  I  was  you,  mother,  I  wouldn't 
marry  father."  It  came  from  little  Time,  and  they  start- 
ed, for  they  had  forgotten  him. 

"Oh,  it  is  only  a  tale,"  said  Sue,  cheeringly. 

After  this  exhilarating  tradition  from  the  widow  on  the 
eve  of  the  solemnization  they  rose,  and,  wishing  their 
guest  good-night,  retired. 

The  next  morning  Sue,  whose  nervousness  intensified 
with  the  hours,  took  Jude  privately  into  the  sitting-room 
before  starting.  "Jude,  I  want  you  to  kiss  me,  as  a  lover, 
incorporeally,"  she  said,  tremulously  nestling  up  to  him, 
with  damp  lashes.  "  It  won't  be  ever  like  this  any  more, 
will  it  ?  I  wish  we  hadn't  begun  the  business.  But  I 
suppose  we  must  go  on.  How  horrid  that  story  was  last 
night !     It  spoiled  my  thoughts  of  to-day.     It  makes  me 


> 
f 

s 

< 

O 

n 
o 


T^  AT   ALDBRICKHAM  AND   ELSEWHERE  335 

feel  as  if  a  tragic  doom  overhung  our  family,  as  it  did  the 
house  of  Atreus." 

"  Or  the  house  of  Jeroboam,"  said  the  quondam  theo- 
logian. 

"Yes.  And  it  seems  awful  temerity  in  us  two  to  go 
marrying  !  I  am  going  to  vow  to  you  in  the  same  words 
I  vowed  in  to  my  other  husband,  and  you  to  me  in  the 
same  as  you  used  to  your  other  wife,  regardless  of  the 
deterrent  lesson  we  were  taught  by  those  experiments  I" 

"  If  you  are  uneasy  I  am  made  unhappy,"  said  he.  "  I 
had  hoped  you  would  feel  quite  joyful.  But  if  you  don't, 
you  don't.  It  is  no  use  pretending.  It  is  a  dismal  busi- 
ness to  you,  and  that  makes  it  so  to  me  !" 

"  It  is  unpleasantly  like  that  other  morning— that's  all," 
she  murmured.     "  Let  us  go  on  now." 

They  started  arm-in-arm  for  the  office  aforesaid,  no 
witness  accompanying  them  except  the  Widow  Edlin. 
The  day  was  chilly  and  dull,  and  a  clammy  fog  blew 
through  the  town  from  "  Royal-tower'd  Thame."  On  the 
steps  of  the  office  there  were  the  muddy  footmarks  of 
people  who  had  entered,  and  in  the  entry  were  damp 
umbrellas.  Within  the  office  several  persons  were  gath- 
ered, and  our  couple  perceived  that  a  marriage  between  a 
soldier  and  a  young  woman  was  just  in  progress.  Sue, 
Jude,  and  the  widow  stood  in  the  background  while  this 
was  going  on,  Sue  reading  the  notices  of  marriage  on  the 
wall.  The  room  was  a  dreary  place  to  two  of  their  tem- 
perament, though  to  its  usual  frequenters  it  doubtless 
seemed  ordinary  enough.  Law-books  in  musty  calf  cov- 
ered one  wall,  and  elsewhere  were  Post-Office  Directories, 
and  other  books  of  reference.  Papers  in  packets  tied  with 
red  tape  were  pigeon-holed  around,  and  some  iron  safes 
filled  a  recess  :  while  the  bare  wood  floor  was,  like  the 
door-step,  stained  by  previous  visitors. 

The  soldier  was  sullen  and  reluctant,  the  bride  sad  and 
timid  ;  she  was  soon,  obviously,  to  become  a  mother,  and 
she  had  a  black  eye.    Their  little  business  was  soon  done. 


33^  JUDE  THE  OBSCURE 

and  the  twain  and  their  friends  straggled  out,  one  of  the 
witnesses  saying  casually  to  Jude  and  Sue  in  passing,  as 
if  he  had  known  them  before  :  "  See  the  couple  just  come 
in  ?  Ha,  ha  !  That  fellow  is  just  out  of  jail  this  morn- 
ing. She  met  him  at  the  jail  gates,  and  brought  him 
straight  here.     She's  paying  for  everything." 

She  turned  her  head  and  saw  an  ill-favored  man,  closely 
cropped,  with  a  broad-faced,  pock-marked  woman  on  his 
arm,  ruddy  with  liquor  and  the  satisfaction  of  being  on 
the  brink  of  a  gratified  desire.  They  jocosely  saluted  the 
outgoing  couple,  and  went  forward  in  front  of  Jude  and 
Sue,  whose  diffidence  was  increasing.  The  latter  drew 
back  and  turned  to  her  lover,  her  mouth  shaping  itself 
like  that  of  a  child  about  to  give  way  to  grief : 

"  Jude — I  don't  like  it  here  !  I  wish  we  hadn't  come  ! 
The  place  gives  me  the  horrors  :  it  seems  so  unnatural  as 
the  climax  of  our  love  !  I  wish  it  had  been  at  church,  if 
it  had  to  be  at  all.     It  is  not  so  vulgar  there." 

"Dear  little  girl,"  said  Jude,  "how  troubled  and  pale 
you  look  !" 

"  It  must  be  performed  here  now,  I  suppose.?" 

"  No — perhaps  not  necessarily." 

He  spoke  to  the  clerk,  and  came  back.  "  No ;  we  need 
not  marry  here,  or  anywhere,  unless  we  like,  even  now," 
he  said.  "We  can  be  married  in  a  church,  if  not  with 
the  same  certificate,  with  another  he'll  give  us,  I  think. 
Anyhow,  let  us  go  out  till  you  are  calmer,  dear,  and  I  too, 
and  talk  it  over." 

They  went  out  stealthily  and  guiltily,  as  if  they  had 
committed  a  misdemeanor,  closing  the  door  without 
noise,  and  telling  the  widow,  who  had  remained  in  the 
entry,  to  go  home  and  await  them  ;  that  they  would  call 
in  any  casual  passers  as  witnesses,  if  necessary.  When  in 
the  street  they  turned  into  an  unfrequented  side  alley, 
where  they  walked  up  and  down  as  they  had  done  long 
ago  in  the  Market-house  at  Melchester. 

"  Now,  darling,  what  shall  we  do  ?     We  are  making  a 


y 


*-»'  AT   ALDBRICKHAM   AND   ELSEWHERE  337 

mess  of  it,  it  strikes  me.     Still,  anything  that  pleases  you 
will  please  me." 

"  But  Jude,  dearest,  I  am  worrying  you  !  You  wanted 
it  to  be  there,  didn't  you  }" 

"  Well,  to  tell  the  truth,  when  I  got  inside  I  felt  as  if  I 
didn't  care  much  about  it.  The  place  depressed  me  al- 
most as_j3iuch-as  it  did  you  ;  it  was  ugly.  And  then  I 
thought  of  what  you  had  said  this  morning  as  to  whether 
we  ought." 

They  walked  on  vaguely  till  she  paused,  and  her  little 
voice  began  anew:  "It  seems  so  weak,  too,  to  vacillate 
like  this !  And  yet  how  much  better  than  to  act  rashly  a 
second  time.  .  .  .  How  terrible  that  scene  was  to  me! 
The  expression  in  that  flabby  woman's  face,  leading  her 
on  to  give  herself  to  that  jail-bird,  not  for  a  few  hours,  as 
she  would,  but  for  a  lifetime,  as  she  must.  And  the 
other  poor  soul — to  escape  a  nominal  shame  which  was 
owing  to  the  weakness  of  her  character,  degrading  her- 
self to  the  real  shame  of  bondage  to  a  tyrant  who  scorned 
her— a  man  whom  to  avoid  forever  was  her  only  chance 
of  salvation.-.  .  .  This  is  our  parish  church,  isn't  it.'  This 
is  where  it  would  have  to  be  if  we  did  it  in  the  usual 
way?     A  service  or  something  seems  to  be  going  on." 

Jude  went  up  and  looked  in  at  the  door.  "  Why,  it  is 
a  wedding  here  too,"  he  said.  "  Everybody  seems  to  be 
on  our  tack  to-day." 

Sue  said  she  supposed  it  was  because  Lent  was  just 
over,  when  there  was  always  a  crowd  of  marriages.  "  Let 
us  listen,"  she  said,  "  and  find  how  it  feels  to  us  when  per- 
formed in  a  church." 

They  stepped  in,  and  entered  a  back  seat,  and  watched 
the  proceedings  at  the  altar.  The  contracting  couple  ap- 
peared to  belong  to  the  well-to-do  middle  class,  and  the 
wedding  altogether  was  of  ordinary  prettincss  and  inter- 
est. Tlicy  could  see  the  flowers  tremble  in  the  bride's 
hand,  even  at  that  distance,  and  could  hear  her  mechanical 
murmur  of  words  whose  meaning   her  brain  seemed  to 


338  JUDE  THE   OBSCURE 

gather  not  at  all  under  the  pressure  of  her  self-conscious- 
ness. Sue  and  Jude  listened,  and  severally  saw  them- 
selves in  time  past  going  through  the  same  form  of  self- 
committal. 

"  It  is  not  the  same  to  her,  poor  thing,  as  it  would  be  to 
me  doing  it  over  again  with  my  present  knowledge,"  Sue 
whispered.  "  You  see,  thejf  are  fresh  to  it,  and  take  the 
proceedings  as  a  matter  of  course.  But  having  been 
awakened  to  its  awful  solemnity  as  we  have,  or,  at  least, 
as  I  have,  uy  experience,  and  to  my  own  tod  squeamish 
feelings  perhaps  sometimes,  it  really  does  seem  immoral 
in  me  to  go  and  undertake  the  same  thing  again  with 
open  eyes.  Coming  in  here  and  seeing  this  has  fright- 
ened me  from  a  church  wedding  as  much  as  the  other  did 
from  a  registry  one.  .  .  .  We  are  a  weak,  tremulous  pair, 
Jude,  and  what  others  may  feel  confident  in  I  feel  doubts 
of  —  my  being  proof  against  the  sordid  conditions  of  a 
business  contract  again." 

Then  they  tried  to  laugh,  and  went  on  debating  in 
whispers  the  object-lesson  before  them.  And  Jude  said 
he  also  thought  they  were  both  too  thin-skinned  ;  that 
they  ought  never  to  have  been  born,  much  less  have 
come  together  for  the  most  preposterous  of  all  joint- 
ventures  for  ///tv;/— matrimony. 

His  betrothed  shuddered,  and  asked  him  earnestly  if  he 
indeed  felt  that  they  ought  not  to  go  in  cold  blood  and 
sign  that  life-undertaking  again.  "  It  is  awful  if  you  think 
we  have  found  ourselves  not  strong  enough  for  it,  and, 
knowing  this,  are  proposing  to  perjure  ourselves,"  she  said. 

"I  fancy  I  do  think  it — since  you  ask  me,"  said  Jude. 
"  Remember,  I'll  do  it  if  you  wish,  own  darling."  While 
she  hesitated  he  went  on  to  confess  that,  though  he 
thought  they  ought  to  be  able  to  do  it,  he  felt  checked  by 
the  dread  of  incompetency,  just  as  she  did  —  from  their 
peculiarities,  perhaps,  because  they  were  unlike  other 
people.  "  We  are  horribly  sensitive  ;  that's  really  what's 
the  matter  with  us.  Sue  !"  he  declared. 


Sw- 
at  ALDBRICKHAM   AND    ELSEWHERE  339 

"  I  fancy  more  are  like  us  than  we  think  !" 
"Well,  I  don't  know.  The  intention  of  the  contract  is 
good,  and  right  for  many,  no  doubt ;  but  in  our  case  it 
may  defeat  its  own  ends,  because  we  are  the  queer  sort  of 
people  we  are  —  folk  in  whom  domestic  ties  of  a  forced 
kind  snuff  out  cordiality  and  spontaneousness." 

Sue  still  held  that  there  was  nothing  queer  or  excep- 
tional in  it — that  all  were  so.  "  Everybody  is  getting  to 
feel  as  we  do.  We  are  a  little  beforehand,  that's  all.  In 
fifty,  aye,  twenty  years,  the  descendants  of  these  two  will 
act  and  feel  worse  than  we.  They  will  see  weltering  hu- 
manity still  more  vividly  than  we  do  now,  as 

"'Shapes  like  our  own  selves  hideously  multiplied,' 

and  will  be  afraid  to  reproduce  them." 

"  What  a  terrible  line  of  poetry !  .  .  .  though  I  have  felt 
it  myself  about  my  fellow-creatures  at  morbid  times." 

Thus  they  murmured  on,  till  Sue  said,  more  brightly  : 

"  Well,  the  general  question  is  not  our  business,  and 
why  should  we  plague  ourselves  about  it.^  However 
different  our  reasons  are,  we  come  to  the  same  conclu- 
sion :  that  for  us  particular  two  an  irrevocable  oath  is 
risky.  Then,  Jude,  let  us  go  home  without  killing  our 
dream  !  Yes  ?  How  good  you  are,  my  friend  ;  you  give 
way  to  all  my  whims  !" 

"  They  accord  very  much  with  my  own." 

He  gave  her  a  little  kiss  behind  a  pillar  while  the  at- 
tention of  everybody  present  was  taken  up  in  observing 
the  bridal  procession  entering  the  vestr3^  and  then  they 
came  outside  the  building.  By  the  door  they  waited  till 
two  or  three  carriages,  which  had  gone  away  for  a  while, 
returned,  and  the  new  husband  and  wife  came  into  the 
open  daylight.     Sue  sighed. 

^ "  The  flowers  in  the  bride's  hand  are  sadly  like  the  gar- 
xand  which  decked  the  heifers  of  sacrifice  in  old  times!" 

"  Still,  Sue,  it  is  no  worse  for  the  woman  than  for  the 


340  JUDE   THE   OBSCURE 

man.  That's  what  some  women  fail  to  see ;  and  instead 
of  protesting  against  the  conditions,  they  protest  against 
the  man,  the  other  victim— just  as  a  woman  in  a  crowd 
will  abuse  the  man  who  crushes  against  her,  when  he  is 
only  the  helpless  transmitter  of  the  pressure  put  upon 
him." 

"Yes;  some  are  like  that,  instead  of  uniting  with  the 
man  against  the  common  enemy,  coercion."  The  bride 
and  bridegroom  had  by  this  time  driven  off,  and  the  two 
moved  away  with  the  rest  of  the  idlers.  "  No,  don't  let's 
do  it,"  she  continued — "  at  least,  just  now." 

They  reached  home,  and,  passing  the  window  arm-in- 
arm, saw  the  widow  looking  out  at  them.  "Well,"  cried 
their  guest,  when  they  entered,  "  J  said  to  myself  when  I 
zeed  ye  coming  so  loving  up  to  the  door,  '  They  made  up 
their  minds  at  last,  then  !'" 

They  briefly  hinted  that  they  had  not. 

"  What !  and  ha'n't  ye  really  done  it  ?  Chok'  it  all,  that 
I  should  have  lived  to  see  a  good  old  saying  like  'marry 
in  haste  and  repent  at  leisure'  spoiled  like  this  by  you 
two !  'Tis'  time  I  got  back  again  to  Marygreen — sakes  if 
tidden — if  this  is  what  the  new  notions  be  leading  us  to  ! 
Nobody  thought  o'  being  afcard  o'  matrimony  in  my 
time,  nor  of  much  else  but  a  cannon-ball  or  empty  cup- 
board I  Why,  when  I  and  my  poor  man  were  married  we 
thought  no  more  o't  than  of  a  game  o'  dibs  !" 

"  Don't  tell  the  child  when  he  comes  in,"  whispered 
Sue,  nervously.  "  He'll  think  it  has  all  gone  on  right, 
and  it  will  be  better  that  he  should  not  be  surprised  and 
puzzled.  Of  course,  it  is  only  put  off  for  reconsideration. 
If  we  are  happy  as  we  are,  what  does  it  matter  to  any- 
body ?'• 


V 

The  purpose  of  a  chronicler  of  moods  and  deeds  does 
not  require  him  to  express  his  personal  views  upon  the 
grave  controversy  above  given.  That  the  twain  were 
happy — between  their  times  of  sadness — was  indubitable. 
And  when  the  unexpected  apparition  of  Jude's  child  in 
the  house  had  shown  itself  to  be  no  such  disturbing  event 
as  it  had  looked,  but  one  that  brought  into  their  lives  a 
new  and  tender  interest  of  an  ennobling  and  unselfish 
kind,  it  rather  helped  than  injured  their  happiness. 

To  be  sure,  with  such  pleasing  anxious  beings  as  they 
were,  the  boy's  coming  also  brought  with  it  much  thought 
for  the  future,  particularly  as  he  seemed  at  present  to  be 
singularly  deficient  in  all  the  usual  hopes  of  childhood. 
But  the  pair  tried  to  dismiss,  for  a  while  at  least,  a  too 
strenuously  forward  view. 

There  is  in  Upper  Wessex  an  old  town  of  nine  or  ten 
thousand  souls  ;  the  town  may  be  called  Stoke-Barehills. 
It  stands  with  its  gaunt,  unattractive,  ancient  church,  and 
its  new  red  brick  suburb,  amid  the  open,  chalk -soiled 
cornlands,  near  the  middle  of  an  imaginary  triangle  which 
has  for  its  three  corners  the  towns  of  Aldbrickham  and 
Wintoncester,  and  the  important  military  station  of  Quar- 
tershot.  The  great  western  highway  from  London  passes 
through  it,  near  a  point  where  the  road  branches  into 
two,  merely  to  unite  again  some  twenty  miles  farther  west- 
ward. Out  of  this  bifurcation  and  reunion  there  used  to 
arise  among  wheeled  travellers,  before  railway  days,  end- 
less questions  of  choice  between  the  respective  ways.  But 
the  question  is  now  as  dead  as  the  scot-and-lot  freeholder. 


342  JUDE  THE   OBSCURE 

tlie  road  wagoner,  and  the  mail  coachman  who  disputed 
it ;  and  probably  not  a  single  inhabitant  of  Stoke-Bare- 
hills  is  now  even  aware  that  tlie  two  roads  which  part  in 
his  town  ever  meet  again,  for  nobody  now  drives  up  and 
down  the  great  western  highway  daily. 

The  most  familiar  object  in  Stoke-Barehills  nowadays 
is  its  cemetery,  standing  among  some  picturesque  medi- 
aeval ruins  beside  the  railway  ;  the  modern  chapels,  mod- 
ern tombs,  and  modern  shrubs  having  a  look  of  intrusive- 
ness  amid  the  crumbling  and  ivy-covered  decay  of  the 
ancient  walls. 

On  a  certain  day,  however,  in  the  particular  year,  which 
has  now  been  reached  by  this  narrative — the  month  being 
early  June — the  features  of  the  town  excite  little  interest, 
though  many  visitors  arrive  by  the  trains ;  some  down 
trains,  in  especial,  nearly  emptying  themselves  here.  It 
is  the  week  of  the  Great  Wessex  Agricultural  Show, 
whose  vast  encampment  spreads  over  the  open  outskirts 
of  the  town  like  the  tents  of  an  investing  army.  Rows  of 
marquees,  huts,  booths,  pavilions,  arcades,  porticoes — 
every  kind  of  structure  short  of  a  permanent  one — cover 
the  green  field  for  the  space  of  a  square  half-mile,  and 
the  crowds  of  arrivals  walk  through  the  town  in  a  mass, 
and  make  straight  for  the  exhibition  ground.  The  way 
thereto  is  lined  with  shows,  stalls,  and  hawkers  on  foot, 
who  make  a  market-place  of  the  whole  roadway  to  the 
show  proper,  and  lead  some  of  the  improvident  to  lighten 
their  pockets  appreciably  before  they  reach  the  gates  of 
the  exhibition  they  came  expressly  to  see. 

It  is  the  popular  day,  the  shilling  day,  and  of  the  fast- 
arriving  excursion  trains  two  from  different  directions 
enter  the  two  contiguous  railway-stations  at  almost  the 
same  minute.  One,  like  several  which  have  preceded  it, 
comes  from  London,  the  other  by  a  cross-line  from  Ald- 
brickham  ;  and  from  the  London  train  alights  a  couple  : 
a  short,  rather  bloated  man,  with  a  globular  stomach  and 
small  legs,  resembling  a  top  on  two  pegs,  accompanied 


AT    ALDBRICKHAM    AND    ELSEWHERE  343 

by  a  woman  of  rather  fine  figure  and  rather  red  face, 
dressed  in  black  material,  and  covered  with  beads  from 
bonnet  to  skirt,  that  made  her  glisten  as  if  clad  in  chain- 
mail. 

They  cast  their  eyes  around.  The  man  was  about  to 
hire  a  fly,  as  some  others  had  done,  when  the  woman 
said,  "  Don't  be  in  such  a  hurry,  Cartlett.  It  isn't  so  very 
far  to  the  show-yard.  Let  us  walk  down  the  street  into 
the  place.  Perhaps  I  can  pick  up  a  cheap  bit  of  furni- 
ture or  old  china.  It  is  years  since  I  was  here — never  since 
I  lived  as  a  girl  at  Aldbrickham,  and  used  to  come  across 
for  a  trip  sometimes  with  my  young  man." 

"  You  can't  carry  home  furniture  by  excursion  train," 
said,  in  a  thick  voice,  her  husband,  the  landlord  of  The 
Three  Horns,  Lambeth  ;  for  they  had  both  come  down 
from  the  tavern  in  that  "  excellent,  densely  populated, 
gin -drinking  neighborhood."  which  they  had  occupied 
ever  since  the  advertisement  in  those  words  had  attracted 
them  thither.  The  configuration  of  the  landlord  showed 
that  he,  too,  like  his  customers,  was  becoming  affected  by 
the  liquors  he  retailed. 

"  Then  I'll  get  it  sent,  if  I  can  see  any  worth  having," 
said  his  wife. 

They  sauntered  on.  but  had  barely  entered  the  town 
when  her  attention  was  attracted  by  a  young  couple  lead- 
ing a  child  who  had  come  out  from  the  second  platform, 
into  which  the  train  from  Aldbrickham  had  steamed. 
They  were  walking  just  in  front  of  the  innkeepers. 

"  Sakes  alive  !"  said  Arabella. 

"  What's  that  ?"  said  Cartlett. 

"  Who  do  you  think  that  couple  is.'  Don't  you  recog- 
nize the  man  ?" 

"  No." 

"  Not  from  the  photos  I  have  shown  you  ?" 

"  Is  it  Fawley  ?" 

"  Yes — of  course." 

"  Oh,  well.     I  suppose  he  was  inclined  for  a  little  sight- 


344  JUDE   THE   OBSCURIi 

seeing  like  the  rest  of  us."  Cartlett's  interest  in  Judc, 
whatever  it  might  have  been  when  Arabella  was  new  to 
him,  had  plainly  flagged  since  her  charms  and  her  idio- 
syncrasies, her  supernumerary  hair-coils,  and  her  optional 
dimples  were  becoming  as  a  tale  that  is  told. 

Arabella  so  regulated  her  pace  and  Iier  husband's  as  to 
keep  just  in  the  rear  of  the  other  three,  which  it  was 
easy  to  do  without  notice  in  such  a  stream  oi  pedestri- 
ans. Her  answers  to  Cartlett's  remarks  were  vague  and 
slight,  for  the  group  in  front  interested  her  rhore  than  all 
the  rest  of  the  spectacle. 

"  They  are  rather  fond  of  one  another  and  of  their 
child,  seemingl}',"  continued  the  publican. 

"Their  child!  'Tisn't  their  child,  "  said  Arabella  with 
a  curious,  sudden  fierceness.  "  They  haven't  been  mar- 
ried long  enough  for  it  to  be  theirs  !" 

But  although  the  smouldering  maternal  instinct  was 
strong  enough  in  her  to  lead  her  to  quash  her  husband's 
conjecture,  she  was  not  disposed  on  second  thoughts  to 
be  more  candid  than  necessary.  Mr.  Cartlett  had  no 
other  idea  than  that  his  wife's  child  by  her  first  husband 
was  with  his  grandparents  at  the  Antipodes. 

"  Oh,  I  suppose  not.     She  looks  quite  a  girl." 

"  They  are  only  lovers,  or  lately  married,  and  have  the 
child  in  charge,  as  anybody  can  see." 

All  continued  to  move  ahead.  The  unwitting  Sue  and 
Jude,  the  couple  in  question,  had  determined  to  make 
this  Agricultural  Exhibition  within  twenty  miles  of  their 
own  town  the  occasion  of  a  day's  excursion  which  should 
combine  exercise  and  amusement  with  instruction,  at  small 
expense.  Not  regardful  of  themselves  alone,  they  had 
taken  care  to  bring  Father  Time,  to  try  every  means  of 
making  bin;  kindle  and  laugh  like  other  boys,  though  he 
was  to  some  extent  a  hindrance  to  the  delightfully  un- 
reserved intercourse  in  their  pilgrimages  which  they  so 
much  enjoyed.  But  they  soon  ceased  to  consider  him  an 
observer,  and  went  along  with   that  tender  attention  to 


AT   ALDBRICKHAM    AND    ELSEWHERE  345 

each  other  which  the  shyest  can  scarcely  disguise,  and 
which  these,  among  entire  strangers  as  they  imagined, 
took  less  trouble  to  disguise  than  they  might  have  done 
at  home.  Sue,  in  her  new  summer  clothes,  flexible  and 
light  as  a  bird,  her  little  thumb  stuck  up  by  the  stem 
of  her  white  cotton  sunshade,  went  along  as  if  she 
hardly  touched  ground,  and  as  if  a  moderately  strong 
pufT  of  wind  would  float  her  over  the  hedge  into  the  next 
field.  Jude,  in  his  light-gray  holiday-suit,  was  really  proud 
of  her  companionsliip,  not  more  for  her  external  attract- 
iveness than  for  her  sympathetic  words  and  ways.  That 
complete  mutual  understanding,  in  which  every  glance 
and  movement  was  as  effectual  as  speech  for  conveying 
intelligence  between  them,  made  them  almost  the  two 
parts  of  a  single  whole. 

The  pair  with  their  charge  passed  through  the  turn- 
stiles, Arabella  and  her  husband  not  far  behind  them. 
When  inside  the  enclosure  the  publican's  wife  could  see 
that  the  two  ahead  began  to  take  trouble  with  the  young- 
ster, pointing  out  and  explaining  the  many  objects  of  in- 
terest, alive  and  dead  ;  and  a  passing  sadness  would  touch 
their  faces  at  their  every  failure  to  disturb  his  indifference. 

"How  she  sticks  to  him  !"  said  Arabella.  "Oh,  no — I 
fancy  they  are  not  married,  or  they  wouldn't  be  so  much 
to  one  another  as  that.  ...  I  wonder!" 

"  But  1  thought  you  said  he  did  marry  her.''" 

"I  heard  he  was  going  to  —  that's  all,  going  to  make 
another  attempt,  after  putting  it  off  once  or  twice.  ...  As 
far  as  they  themselves  are  concerned  they  are  the  only 
two  in  the  show.  I  should  be  ashamed  of  making  my- 
self so  silly  if  I  were  he!" 

"I  don't  see  as  how  there's  anything  remarkable  in 
their  behavior.  I  should  never  have  noticed  their  being 
in  love,  if  you  hadn't  said  so." 

"You  never  see  anything,"  she  rejoined.  Nevertheless 
Cartlett's  view  of  the  lovers'  or  married  pair's  conduct 
was  undoubtedly  that  of  the  general  crowd,  whose  at- 


346  JUDE  THE   OBSCURE 

tention  seemed  to  be  in  no  way  attracted  by  what  Ara- 
bella's sharpened  vision  discerned. 

"  He's  charmed  by  her  as  if  she  were  some  fairy  !"  con- 
tinued Arabella.  "  See  how  he  looks  round  at  her,  and 
lets  his  eyes  rest  on  her.  I  am  inclined  to  think  that  she 
don't  care  for  him  quite  so  much  as  he  does  for  her. 
She's  not  a  particular  warm-hearted  creature  to  my  think- 
ing, though  she  cares  for  him  pretty  middling  much — as 
much  as  she's  able  to;  and  he  could  make  her  heart  ache 
a  bit  if  he  liked  to  try  —  which  he's  too  simple  to  do. 
There  —  now  they  are  going  across  to  the  cart-horse 
sheds.     Come  along." 

"  I  don't  want  to  see  the  cart-horses.  It  is  no  business 
of  ours  to  follow  these  two.  If  we  have  come  to  see 
the  show  let  us  see  it  in  our  own  way,  as  they  do  in 
theirs." 

"Well  —  suppose  we  agree  to  meet  somewhere  in  an 
hour's  time — say  at  that  refreshment  tent  over  there,  and 
go  about  independent  ?  Then  you  can  look  at  what  you 
choose  to,  and  so  can  I." 

Cartlett  was  not  loath  to  agree  to  this,  and  they  part- 
ed— he  proceeding  to  the  shed  where  malting  processes 
were  being  exhibited,  and  Arabella  in  the  direction  taken 
by  Jude  and  Sue.  Before,  however,  she  had  regained 
their  wake  a  laughing  face  met  her  own,  and  she  was  con- 
fronted by  Anny,  the  friend  of  her  girlhood. 

Anny  had  burst  out  in  hearty  laughter  at  the  mere  fact 
of  the  chance  rencounter.  "  I  be  still  living  down  there," 
she  said,  as  soon  as  she  was  composed.  "  I  am  soon  go- 
ing to  be  married,  but  my  intended  couldn't  come  up  here 
to-day.  But  there's  lots  of  us  come  by  excursion,  though 
I've  lost  the  rest  of  'em  for  the  present." 

"  Have  you  met  Jude  and  his  young  woman,  or  wife,  or 
whatever  she  is.-*     I  saw  'em  by  now." 

"  No.     Not  a  glimpse  of  un  for  years  !" 

"  Well,  they  are  close  by  here  somewhere.  Yes — there 
they  are — by  that  gray  horse  I" 


AT    ALDBRICKHAM    AND    ELSEWHERE  347 

"  Oh,  that's  his  present  young  woman — wife  did  you  say  ? 
Has  he  married  again  ?" 

"  I  don't  know." 

"  She's  pretty,  isn't  she." 

"  Yes — nothing  to  complain  of ;  or  jump  at.  Not  much 
to  depend  on,  though;  a  slim,  fidgety  little  thing  like 
that." 

"  He's  a  nice-looking  chap,  too.  You  ought  to  ha' 
stuck  to  un,  Arabella." 

"I  don't  know  but  I  ought,  "  murmured  she. 

Anny  laughed.  "  That's  you,  Arabella.  Always  want- 
ing another  man  than  your  own.  " 

"  Well,  and  what  woman  don't,  I  should  like  to  know  ? 
As  for  that  body  with  him— she  don't  know  what  love  is 
— at  least  what  1  call  love  !  I  can  see  in  her  face  she 
don't." 

"  And  perhaps,  Abby  dear,  you  don't  know  what  she 
calls  love." 

'•I'm  sure  I  don't  wish  to  I  .  .  .  Ah — they  are  making 
for  the  Art  Department.  I  should  like  to  see  some  pict- 
ures myself.  Suppose  we  go  that  way?  Why,  if  all 
Wessex  isn't  here,  I  verily  believe!  There's  Dr.  Vilbert. 
Haven't  seen  him  for  years,  and  he's  not  looking  a  day 
older  than  when  I  used  to  know  him.  How  do  you  do, 
Physician  ?  I  was  just  saying  that  you  don't  look  a  day 
older  than  when  you  knew  me  as  a  girl." 

"Simply  the  result  of  taking  my  own  pills  regular, 
ma'am.  Only  two  and  threepence  a  box  —  warranted 
efficacious  by  the  Government  stamp.  Now  let  me  ad- 
vise you  to  purchase  the  same  immunity  from  the  rav- 
ages of  Time  l)y  following  my  example  ?  Only  two-and- 
three." 

The  physician  had  produced  a  box  from  his  waistcoat 
pocket,  and  Arabella  was  induced  to  make  the  pur- 
chase. 

"At  the  same  time,"  continued  he,  when  the  pills  were 
paid  for,  "  you  have  the  advantage  of  me,  Mrs. —     Surely 


348  JUDK  THE   OBSCURE 

not  Mrs.  Fawley,    once    Miss  Donn,    of   the   vicinity  of 
Marygreen  ?" 

"  Yes.     But  Mrs.  Cartlett  now." 

•'  Ah — you  lost  him,  then  ?  Promising  young  fellow  ! 
A  pupil  of  mine,  you  know.  I  taught  him  the  dead  lan- 
guages. And  believe  me,  he  soon  knew  nearly  as  much 
as  I." 

"  I  lost  him  ;  but  not  as  you  think,"  said  Arabella,  dryly. 
"  The  lawyers  untied  us.  There  he  is,  look,  alive  and 
lusty  ;  along  with  that  young  woman,  entering  the  Art 
exhibition." 

"  Ah — dear  me  !     Fond  of  her,  apparently." 

"  They  say  they  are  cousins." 

"  Cousinship  is  a  great  convenience  to  their  feelings,  I 
should  say  }" 

"  Yes.  So  her  husband  thought,  no  doubt,  when  he 
divorced  her.  .  .  .  Shall  we  look  at  the  pictures,  too.''" 

The  trio  followed  across  the  green  and  entered.  Jude 
and  Sue,  with  the  child,  unaware  of  the  interest  they  were 
exciting,  had  gone  up  to  a  model  at  one  end  of  the  build- 
ing, which  they  regarded  with  considerable  attention  for 
a  long  while  before  they  went  on.  Arabella  and  her 
friends  came  to  it  in  due  course,  and  the  inscription  it 
bore  was  :  "  Model  of  Cardinal  College,  Christminster ;  by 
J.  Fawley  and  S.  F.  M.  Bridehead." 

"  Admiring  their  own  work,"  said  Arabella.  "  How 
like  Jude— always  thinking  of  colleges  and  Christminster 
instead  of  attending  to  his  business  !" 

They  glanced  cursorily  at  the  pictures,  and  proceeded 
to  the  band-stand.  When  they  had  stood  a  little  while 
listening  to  the  music  of  the  military  performers,  Jude, 
Sue,  and  the  child  came  up  on  the  other  side.  Arabella 
did  not  care  if  they  should  recognize  her  ;  but  they  were 
too  deeply  absorbed  in  their  own  lives,  as  translated  into 
emotion  by  the  military  band,  to  perceive  her  under  her 
beaded  veil.  She  walked  round  the  outside  of  the  listen- 
ing throng,  passing  behind  the  lovers,  whose  movements 


AT   ALDBRICKHAM   AND   ELSEWHERE  349 

had  an  unexpected  fascination  for  her  to-day.  Scrutiniz- 
ing them  narrowly  from  the  rear,  she  noticed  that  Jude's 
hand  sought  Sue's  as  they  stood,  the  two  standing  close 
together  so  as  to  conceal,  as  they  supposed,  this  tacit  ex- 
pression of  their  mutual  responsiveness. 

"  Silly  fools — like  two  children  !"  Arabella  whispered  to 
herself,  morosely,  as  she  rejoined  her  companions,  with 
whom  she  preserved  a  preoccupied  silence. 

Anny  meanwhile  had  jokingly  remarked  to  Vilbert  on 
Arabella's  hankering  interest  in  her  first  husband. 

•'  Now,"  said  the  physician  to  Arabella,  apart,  "  do  you 
want  anythi  ig  such  as  this,  Mrs.  Cartiett  }     It  is  not  com- 
pounded   out   of  my  regular  pharmacopoeia,   but    I   am 
sometimes  asked  for  such  a  thing."     He  produced  a  small 
phial  of  clear  liquid.     "  A  love-philter,  such  as  was  used 
by  the  Ancients  with  great  effect.     I  found  it  out  by  study 
of  their  writings,  and  have  never  known  it  to  fail." 
"  What  is  it  made  ol?"  asked  Arabella,  curiously. 
■  ' Well— a  distillation  of  the  juices  of  doves'  hearts- 
otherwise  pigeons' — is  one  of  the    ingredients.     It  took 
nearly  a  hundred  hearts  to  produce  that  small  bottleful." 
"How  do  you  get  pigeons  enough  ?" 
"To  tell  a  secret,  I  get  a  piece' of  rock-salt,  of  which 
pigeons  are  inordinately  fond,  and  place  it  in  a  dovecote 
on  my  roof.     In  a  few  hours  the  birds  come  to  it  from  all 
points  of  the  compass— east,  west,  north,  and  south— and 
thus  I  secure  as  many  as  I  require.     You  use  the  liquid 
by  contriving  that  the  desired   man  shall  take  about  ten 
drops  of  it  in  his  drink.     But  remember,  all  this  is  told 
you  because  I  gather  from  your  questions  that  you  mean 
to  be  a  purchaser.     You  must  keep  faith  with  me." 

"  Very  well — I  don't  mind  a  bottle— to  give  some  friend 
or  other  to  try  it  on  her  young  man."  She  produced  five 
shillings,  the  price  asked,  and  slipped  the  phial  in  her  ca- 
pacious bosom.  Saying  presently  that  she  was  due  at  an 
appointment  with  her  husband,  she  sauntered  away  tow- 
ards the  refreshment  bar,  Jude,  his  cousin,  and  the  child 


350  JUDE  THE   OBSCURE 

having  gone  on  to  the  horticultural  tent,  where  Arabella 
caught  a  glimpse  of  them  standing  before  a  group  of  roses 
in  bloom. 

She  waited  a  few  minutes  observing  them,  and  then 
proceeded  to  join  her  spouse  with  no  very  amiable  senti- 
ments. She  found  him  seated  on  a  stool  by  the  bar,  talk- 
ing to  one  of  the  gayly-dressed  maids  who  haci.  served  him 
with  spirits. 

"I  should  think  you  had  enough  of  this- business  at 
home  !"  Arabella  remarked,  gloomily.  "  Surely  you  didn't 
come  fifty  miles  from  your  own  bar  to  go  into  another  } 
Come,  take  me  round  the  show,  as  other  m'en  do  their 
wives  I  Damm^^  one  would  think  you  were  a  young  bach- 
elor, with  nobody  to  look  after  but  yourself  !" 

"  But  we  agreed  to  meet  here  ;  and  what  could  I  do  but 
wait  ?" 

"  Well,  now  we  have  met,  come  along,"  she  returned, 
ready  to  quarrel  with  the  sun  for  shining  on  her.  And 
they  left  the  tent  together,  this  pot-bellied  man  and  florid 
woman,  in  the  antipathetic,  recriminatory  mood  of  the 
average  husband  and  wife  of  Christendom. 

In  the  meantime  the  more  exceptional  couple  and  the 
boy  still  lingered  in  the  pavilion  of  flowers — an  enchanted 
palace  to  their  appreciative  taste — Sue's  usually  pale 
cheeks  reflecting  the  pink  of  the  tinted  roses  at  which  she 
gazed ;  for  the  gay  sights,  the  air,  the  music,  and  the  ex- 
citement of  a  day's  outing  with  |ude  had  quickened 
her  blood  and  made  her  eyes  sparkle  with  vivacity.  She 
adored  roses,  and  what  Arabella  had  witnessed  was  Sue 
detaining  Jude  almost  against  his  will  while  she  learned 
the  names  of  this  variety  and  that,  and  put  her  face  with- 
in an  inch  of  their  blooms  to  smell  them. 

"  I  should  like  to  push  my  face  quite  into  them — the 
dears !"  she  had  said.  *'  But  I  suppose  it  is  against  the 
rules  to  touch  them — isn't  it,  Jude.-*" 

"  Yes,  you  baby,"  said  he  ;  and  then  playfully  gave  her 
a  little  push,  so  that  her  nose  went  among  the  petals. 


AT   ALDBRICKHAM    AND    ELSEWHERE  35 1 

"The  policeman  will  be  down  on  us,  and  I  shall  say  it 
was  my  husband's  fault." 

Then  she  looked  up  at  him,  and  smiled  in  a  way  that 
told  so  much  to  Arabella. 

"  Happy  ?"  he  murmured. 

She  nodded. 

"  Why  ?  Because  you  have  come  to  the  great  Wessex 
Agricultural  Show— or  because  luc  have  come  .'" 

"You  are  always  trying  to  make  me  confess  to  all  sorts 
of  absurdities.  Because  I  am  improving  my  mind,  of 
course,  by  seeing  all  these  steam-ploughs,  and  threshing- 
machines,  and  chaff-cutters,  and  cows,  and  pigs,  and 
sheep." 

Jude  was  quite  content  with  a  baffle  from  his  ever- 
evasive  companion.  But  when  he  had  forgotten  that  he 
had  put  the  question,  and  because  he  no  longer  wished 
for  an  answer,  she  went  on  :  "  1  feel  that  we  have  returned 
to  Greek  joyousness,  and  have  blinded  ourselves  to  sick- 
ness and  sorrow,  and  have  forgotten  what  twenty-five  cen- 
turies have  taught  the  race  since  their  time,  as  one  of 
your  Christminster  luminaries  says.  .  .  .  There  is  one  im- 
mediate shadow,  however — only  one."  And  she  looked 
at  the  aged  child,  v/hom,  though  they  had  taken  him  to 
everything  likely  to  attract  a  young  intelligence,  they  had 
utterly  failed  to  interest. 

He  knew  what  they  were  saying  and  thinking.  "  I  am 
very,  very  sorry,  father  and  mother,"  he  said.  "  But  please 
don't  mind  !  I  can't  help  it.  I  should  like  the  flowers 
very,  very  much,  if  I  didn't  keep  on  thinking  they'd  be  all 
withered  in  a  few  days  !"  I  /I  l         '1 


VI 

The  unnoticed  lives  that  the  pair  had  hitherto  led  be- 
gan, from  the  day  of  the  suspended  wedding  onward,  to 
be  observed  and  discussed  by  other  persons  than  Ara- 
bella. The  society  of  Spring  Street  and  the  neighbor- 
hood generally  did  not  understand,  and  probabh' could 
not  have  been  made  to  understand,  Sue  and  Jude's  private 
minds,  emotions,  positions,  and  fears.  The  curious  facts 
of  a  child  coming  to  them  unexpectedly,  who  called  |ude 
father,  and  Sue  mother,  and  a  hitch  in  a  marriage  cere- 
mony intended  for  quietness  to  be  performed  at  a  regis- 
trar's office,  together  with  rumors  of  the  undefended 
cases  in  the  law-courts,  bore  only  one  translation  to  plain 
minds. 

Little  Time — for  though  he  was  formally  turned  into 
"Jude,"the  apt  nickname  stuck  to  him  —  would  come 
home  from  school  in  the  evening,  and  repeat  inquiries 
and  remarks  that  had  been  made  to  him  by  the  other 
boys;  and  cause  Sue,  and  Jude  when  he  heard  them,  a 
great  deal  of  pain  and  sadness. 

The  result  was  that  shortly  after  the  attempt  at  the 
registrar's  the  pair  went  off — to  London  it  was  believed — 
for  several  days,  hiring  somebody  to  look  to  the  boy. 
When  they  came  back  they  let  it  be  understood  indirect- 
ly, and  with  total  indifference  and  weariness  of  mien,  that 
they  were  legally  married  at  last.  Sue,  who  had  pre- 
viously been  called  Mrs.  Bridehead,  now  openly  adopted 
the  name  of  Mrs.  Fawley.  Her  dull,  cowed,  and  listless 
manner  for  days  seemed  to  substantiate  all  this. 

But  the  mistake  (as  it  was  called)  of  their  going  away 


AT   ALDBRICKHAM    AND    ELSEWHERE  353 

SO  secretly  to  do  the  business  kept  up  much  of  the  mys- 
tery of  their  lives  ;  and  they  found  that  the}'-  made  not 
such  advances  with  their  neighbors  as  they  had  expected 
to  do  thereby.  A  Uving  mystery  was  not  much  less  in- 
teresting than  a  dead  scandal. 

The  baker's  lad  and  the  grocer's  boy,  who  at  first  had 
used  to  lift  their  hats  gallantly  to  Sue,  when  they  came 
to  execute  their  errands,  in  these  days  no  longer  took  the 
trouble  to  render  her  that  homage,  and  the  neighboring 
artisans'  wives  looked  straight  along  the  pavement  when 
they  encountered  her. 

Nobody  molested  them,  it  is  true;  but  an  oppressive 
atmosphere  began  to  encircle  their  souls,  particularly 
after  their  excursion  to  the  Show,  as  if  that  visit  had 
brought  some  evil  influence  to  bear  on  them.  And  their 
temperaments  were  precisely  of  a  kind  to  sufTer  from 
this  atmosphere,  and  to  be  indisposed  to  lighten  it  by 
.vigorous  and  open  statements.  Their  apparent  attempt 
at  reparation  had  come  too  late  to  be  effective. 

The  head-stone  and  epitaph  orders  fell  off;  and  two  or 
three  months  later,  when  autumn  came,  Jude  perceived 
that  he  would  have  to  return  to  journey-work  again,  a 
course  all  the  more  unfortunate  just  now,  in  that  he  had 
not  as  yet  cleared  off  the  debt  he  had  unavoidably  in- 
curred in  the  payment  of  the  law-costs  of  the  previous 
year. 

One  evening  he  sat  down  to  share  the  common  meal 
with  Sue  and  the  child  as  usual.  "  I  am  thinking,"  he  said 
to  her,  "that  I'll  hold  on  here  no  longer.  The  life  suits 
us,  certainly ;  but  if  we  could  get  away  to  a  place  where 
we  are  unknown,  we  should  be  lighter-hearted,  and  have 
a  better  chance.  And  so  I  am  afraid  we  must  break  it  up 
here,  however  awkward  for  you,  poor  dear  !" 

Sue  was  always  much  affected  at  a  picture  of  herself  as 
an  object  of  pity,  and  a  tear  came  at  this. 

"Well — I  am  not  sorry,"  said  she,  presently.  "I  am 
much  depressed  by  the  way  they  look  at  me  here.     And 

*3 


354  JUDE  THE  OBSCURE 

you  have  been  keeping  on  this  house  and  furniture  en- 
tirely for  me  and  the  boy !  You  don't  want  it  yourself, 
and  the  expense  is  unnecessary.  But  whatever  we  do, 
wherever  wc  go,  you  won't  take  him  away  from  me,  Jude 
dear?  I  could  not  let  him  go  now!  The  cloud  upon 
his  young  mind  makes  him  so  pathetic  to  me  ;  I  do  hope 
to  lift  it  some  day  !  And  he  loves  me  so.  You  won't 
take  him  away  from  me  ?" 

"  Certainly  I  won't,  dear  little  girl !  We'll  get  nice 
lodgings,  wherever  we,go.  I  shall  be  moving  about,  prob- 
ably—getting a  job  here  and  a  job  there." 

"  I  shall  do  something,  too,  of  course,  till — till —  Well, 
now  I  can't  be  useful  in  the  lettering,  it  behooves  me  to 
turn  my  hand  to  something  else." 

"Don't  hurry  about  getting  employment,"  he  said,  re- 
gretfully. "  I  don't  want  you  to  do  that.  I  wish  you 
wouldn't.  Sue.  The  boy  and  yourself  are  enough  for  you 
to  attend  to." 

There  was  a  knock  at  the  door,  and  Jude  answered  it. 
Sue  could  hear  the  conversation  : 

"Is  Mr.  Favvley  at  home.'  .  .  .  Biles  &  Willis,  the 
building  contractors,  sent  me  to  know  if  you'll  undertake 
the  relettering  of  the  Ten  Commandments  in  a  little 
church  they've  been  restoring  lately  in  the  country  near 
here." 
Jude  reflected,  and  said  he  could  undertake  it. 
"  It  is  not  a  very  artistic  job,"  continued  the  messenger. 
"The  clergyman  is  a  very  old-fashioned  chap,  and  he  has 
refused  to  let  anything  more  be  done  to  the  church  than 
cleaning  and  repairing." 

"  Excellent  old  man  !"  said  Sue  to  herself,  who  was  sen- 
timentally opposed  to  the  horrors  of  over-restoration. 

"The  Ten  Commandments  are  fixed  to  the  east  end," 
the  messenger  went  on,  "and  they  want  doing  up  with 
the  rest  of  the  wall  there,  since  he  won't  have  them 
carted  off  as  old  materials  belonging  to  the  contractor,  in 
the  usual  way  of  the  trade." 


AT   ALDBRICKHAM   AND   ELSEWHERE  355 

A  bargain  as  to  terms  was  struck,  and  Jude  came  in- 
doors. "There,  you  see,"  he  said,  cheerfully.  "  One  more 
job  yet,  at  any  rate,  and  you  can  help  in  it— at  least,  you 
can  try.  We  shall  have  all  the  church  to  ourselves,  as 
the  rest  of  the  work  is  finished." 

Next  day  Jude  went  out  to  the  church,  which  was  only 
two  miles  off.  He  found  that  what  the  contractor's  clerk 
had  said  was  true.  The  tables  of  the  Jewish  law  towered 
sternly  over  the  utensils  of  Christian  grace,  as  the  chief 
ornament  of  the  chancel  end,  in  the  fine  dry  style  of  the 
last  century.  And  as  their  framework  was  construct- 
ed of  ornamental  plaster,  they  could  not  be  taken  down 
for  repair.  A  portion,  crumbled  by  damp,  required  re- 
newal; and  when  this  had  been  done,  and  the  whole 
cleansed,  he  began  to  renew  the  lettering.  On  the  second 
morning  Sue  came  to  see  what  assistance  she  could  ren- 
der, and  also  because  they  liked  to  be  together. 

The  silence  and  emptiness  of  the  building  gave  her  con- 
fidence, and,  standing  on  a  safe  low  platform  erected  by 
Jude,  which  she  was  nevertheless  timid  at  mounting,  she 
began  painting  in  the  letters  of  the  lirst  Table  while  he  set 
about  mending  a  portion  of  the  second.  She  was  quite 
pleased  at  her  powers;  she  had  acquired  them  in  the 
days  she  painted  illumined  texts  for  the  church-fitting 
shop  at  Christminster.  Nobody  seemed  likely  to  disturb 
them  ;  and  the  pleasant  twitter  of  birds,  and  rustle  of 
October  leafage,  came  in  through  an  open  window,  and 
mingled  with  their  talk. 

They  were  not,  however,  to  be  left  thus  snug  and  peace- 
ful for  long.  About  half-past  twelve  there  came  footsteps 
on  the  gravel  without.  The  old  vicar  and  his  church- 
warden entered,  and,  coming  up  to  see  what  was  being 
done,  seemed  surprised  to  discover  that  a  young  woman 
\vas  assisting.  They  passed  on  into  an  aisle,  at  which  time 
the  door  again  opened,  and  another  figure  entered — a 
small  one,  that  of  little  Time,  who  was  crying.  She  had 
told  him  where  he  might  find  her  between  school-hours, 


356  JUDE  THE   OBSCURE 

if  he  wished.     She  came  down  from  her  perch,  and  said, 
"  What's  the  matter,  my  dear  ?" 

"  I  couldn't  stay  to  eat  my  dinner  in  school,  because 
they  said — "  He  described  how  some  boys  had  taunted 
him  about  his  nominal  mother,  and  Sue,  grieved,  ex- 
pressed her  indignation  to  Jude  aloft.  The  child  went 
into  the  churchyard,  and  Sue  returned  to  her  work. 
Meanwhile  the  door  had  opened  again,  and  there  shuffled 
in,  with  a  business-like  air,  the  white-aproned  woman  who 
cleaned  the  church.  Sue  recognized  her  as  one  who  had 
friends  in  Spring  Street,  whom  she  visited.  The  church- 
cleaner  looked  at  Sue,  gaped,  and  lifted  her  hands;  she 
had  evidently  recognized  Jude's  companion  as  the  latter 
had  recognized  her.  Next  came  two  ladies,  and,  after  talk- 
ing  to  the  char-woman,  they  also  moved  forward,  and,  as 
Sue  stood  reaching  upward,  watched  her  hand  tracing 
the  letters,  and  critically  regarded  her  person  in  relief 
against  the  white  wall,  till  she  grew  so  nervous  that  she 
trembled  visibly. 

They  went  back  to  where  the  others  were  standing, 
talking  in  undertones  :  and  one  said — Sue  could  not  hear 
which  :  "  She's  his  wife,  I  suppose  ?" 

"  Some  say  Yes  :  some  say  No,"  was  the  reply  from  the 
char-woman. 

"  Not  ?  Then  she  ought  to  be,  or  somebody's — that's 
very  clear !" 

"  They've  only  been  married  a  very  few  weeks,  whether 
or  no." 

"  A  strange  pair  to  be  painting  the  Two  Tables  !  I 
wonder  Biles  and  Willis  could  think  of  such  a  thing  as 
hiring  those !" 

The  church-warden  supposed  that  Biles  and  Willis  knew 
of  nothing  wrong,  and  then  the  other,  who  had  been  talk- 
ing to  the  old  woman,  explained  what  she  meant  by  call- 
ing them  strange  people. 

The  probable  drift  of  the  subdued  conversation  which 
followed  was  made  plain  by  the  church-warden  breaking 


1 


AT   ALDBRICKHAM   AND   ELSEWHERE  357 

into  an  anecdote,  in  a  voice  that  everybody  in  the  church 
could  hear,  though  obviously  suggested  by  the  present 
situation  : 

"  Well,  now,  it  is  a  curious  thing,  but  my  grandfather 
told  me  a  strange  tale  of  a  most  immoral  case  that  hap- 
pened at  the  painting  of  the  Commandments  in  a  church 
out  by  Gaymead — which  is  quite  within  a  walk  of  this 
one.  In  them  days  Commandments  were  mostly  done  in 
gilt  letters  on  a  black  ground,  and  that's  how  they  were 
out  where  I  say,  before  the  owld  church  was  rebuilded. 
It  must  have  been  somewhere  about  a  hundred  years  ago 
that  them  Commandments  wanted  doing  up,  just  as  ours 
do  here,  and  they  had  to  get  men  from  Aldbrickham  to 
do  'em.  Now  they  wished  to  get  the  job  finished  by  a 
particular  Sunday,  so  the  men  had  to  work  late  Satur- 
day night,  against  their  will,  for  over-time  was  not  paid 
then  as  'tis  now.  There  was  no  true  religion  in  the  coun- 
try at  that  date,  neither  among  pa'sons,  clerks,  nor  peo- 
ple, and  to  keep  the  men  up  to  their  work  the  vicar  had 
to  let  'em  have  plenty  of  drink  during  the  afternoon.  As 
evening  drawed  on  they  sent  for  some  more  themselves; 
rum,  by  all  account.  It  got  later  and  later,  and  they  got 
more  and  more  fuddled,  till  at  last  they  went  a-putting 
their  rum-bottle  and  rummers  upon  the  Communion- 
table, and  drawed  up  a  trestle  or  two,  and  sate  round 
comfortable,  and  poured  out  again  right  hearty  bumpers. 
No  sooner  had  they  tossed  off  their  glasses  than,  so  the 
story  goes,  they  fell  down  senseless,  one  and  all.  How 
long  they  bode  so  they  didn't  know,  but  when  they  came 
to  themselves  there  was  a  terrific  thunder-storm  a-raging, 
and  they  seemed  to  see  in  the  gloom  a  dark  figure  with 
very  thin  legs  and  a  curious  voot,  a-standing  on  the  lad- 
der, and  finishing  their  work.  When  it  got  daylight  they 
could  see  that  the  work  was  really  finished,  and  couldn't 
at  all  mind  finishing  it  themselves.  They  went  home, 
and  the  next  thing  they  heard  was  that  a  great  scandal 
had  been  caused  in  the  church  that  Sunday  morning,  for 


358  JUDE  THE  OBSCURE 

when  the  people  came  and  service  began,  all  saw  that  the 
Ten  Commandments  wez  painted  with  the  '  Nots '  left 
out.  Decent  people  wouldn't  attend  service  there  for  a 
long  time,  and  the  Bishop  had  to  be  sent  for  to  reconse- 
crate the  church.  That's  the  tradition  as  I  used  to  hear 
it  as  a  child.  You  must  take  it  for  what  it  is  wo'th.  but 
this  case  to-day  has  reminded  me  o't,  as  I  say." 

The  visitors  gave  one  more  glance,  as  if  to  see  whether 
Jude  and  Sue  had  left  the  Nots  out  likewise,  and  then 
severally  left  the  church,  even  the  old  woman  at  last. 
Sue  and  Jude,  who  had  not  stopped  working,  sent  back 
the  child  to  school,  and  remained  without  speaking,  till, 
looking  at  her  narrowly,  he  found  she  had  been  crying 
silently. 

"Never  mind,  comrade!"  he  said.  "I  know  what  it 
is!" 

"  I  can't  bear  that  they,  and  everybody,  should  think 
people  wicked  because  they  may  have  chosen  to  live  their 
own  way  !  It  is  really  these  opinions  that  make  the  best- 
intentioned  people  reckless,  and  actually  become  im- 
moral !" 

"  Never  be  cast  down  !     It  was  only  a  funny  story." 

"  Ah,  but  we  suggested  it  !  I  am  afraid  I  have  done 
you  mischief,  Jude,  instead  of  helping  you  by  coming  !" 

To  have  suggested  such  a  story  was  certainly  not  very 
exhilarating,  in  a  serious  view  of  their  position.  How- 
ever, in  a  few  minutes  Sue  seemed  to  see  that  their  posi- 
tion this  morning  had  a  ludicrous  side,  and,  wiping  her 
eyes,  she  laughed. 

"It  is  droll,  after  all,"  she  said,  "that  we  two,  of  all 
people,  with  our  queer  history,  should  happen  to  be  here 
doing  this  !  You  a  reprobate,  and  I — in  my  condition. 
.  .  .  Oh,  dear !".  .  .  And  with  her  hand  over  her  eyes  she 
laughed  again  silently  and  intermittently,  till  she  was 
quite  weak. 

"That's  better,"  said  Jude,  gayly.  "Now  we  are  right 
again,  aren't  we,  little  girl  ?" 


AT    ALDBRICKHAM    AND    ELSEWHERE  359 

"  Oh,  but  it  is  serious,  all  the  same  !"  she  sighed,  as  she 
took  up  the  brush  and  righted  herself.  "  But  do  you  see 
they  don't  think  we  are  married  ?  They  won't  believe  it ! 
It  is  extraordinary !" 

"  I  don't  care  whether  they  think  so  or  not,"  said  Jude. 
"  I  sha'n't  take  any  more  trouble  to  make  them." 

They  sat  down  to  lunch — which  they  had  brought  with 
them,  not  to  hinder  time  —  and,  having  eaten  it,  were 
about  to  set  to  work  anew,  when  a  man  entered  the  church, 
and  Jude  recognized  in  him  the  contractor  Willis.  He 
beckoned  to  Jude,  and  spoke  to  him  apart. 

"  Here,  I've  just  had  a  complaint  about  this,"  he  said, 
with  rather  breathless  awkwardness.  "  I  don't  wish  to  go 
into  the  matter — as,  of  course,  I  didn't  know  what  was 
going  on — -but  I  am  afraid  I  must  ask  you  and  her  to 
leave  off,  and  let  somebody  else  finish  this  !  It  is  best,  to 
avoid  all  unpleasantness.  I'll  pay  you  for  the  week,  all 
the  same." 

Jude  was  too  independent  to  make  anj'-  fuss,  and  the 
contractor  paid  him  and  left.  Jude  picked  up  his  tools, 
and  Sue  cleansed  her  brush.     Then  their  eyes  met. 

"  How  could  we — be  so  simple — as  to  suppose  we  might 
do  this  !"  said  she,  dropping  to  her  tragic  note.  "  Of 
course  we  ought  not — I  ought  not — to  have  come  !" 

"  I  had  no  idea  that  anybody  was  going  to  intrude  into 
such  a  lonely  place  and  sec  us  !"  Jude  returned.  "  Well, 
it  can't  be  helped,  dear;  and,  of  course,  I  wouldn't  wish 
to  injure  Willis's  trade-connection  by  staying."  They  sat 
down  passively  for  a  few  minutes,  proceeded  out  of  the 
church,  and,  overtaking  the  boy,  pursued  their  thoughtful 
way  to  Aldbrickham. 

Fawley  had  still  a  pretty  zeal  in  the  cause  of  education, 
and,  as  was  natural  with  his  experiences,  he  was  active 
in  furthering  "equality  of  opportunity"  by  any  humble 
means  open  to  him.  He  had  joined  an  Artisans'  Mutual 
Improvement  Society,  established  in  the  town  about  the 
time  of  his  arrival  there ;  its  members  being  young  men 


360  JUDE   THE   OBSCURE  ♦ 

of  all  creeds  and  denominations,  including  Churchmen, 
Congregationalists,  Baptists,  Unitarians,  Positivists,  and 
others— Agnostics  had  scarcely  been  heard  of  at  this  time 
— their  one  common  wish  to  enlarge  their  minds  forming 
a  sufficiently  close  bond  of  union.  The  subscription  was 
small,  and  the  room  homely  ;  and  Jude's  activity,  uncus- 
tomary acquirements,  and,  above  all,  singular  intuition  on 
what  to  read  and  how  to  set  about  it — begotten  of  his 
years  of  struggle  against  malignant  stars — had  led  to  his 
being  placed  on  the  committee. 

A  few  evenings  after  his  dismissal  from  the  church  re- 
pairs, and  before  he  had  obtained  any  more  work  to  do, 
he  went  to  attend  a  meeting  of  the  aforesaid  committee. 
It  was  late  when  he  arrived  ;  all  the  others  had  come,  and 
as  he  entered  they  looked  dubiously  at  him,  and  hardly 
uttered  a  word  of  greeting.  He  guessed  that  something 
bearing  on  himself  had  been  either  discussed  or  mooted. 
Some  ordinary  business  was  transacted,  and  it  was  dis- 
closed that  the  number  of  subscriptions  had  shown  a 
sudden  falling  off  for  that  quarter.  One  member — a  really 
well-meaning  and  upright  man — began  speaking  in  enig- 
mas about  certain  possible  causes:  that  it  behooved  them 
to  looi<  well  into  their  constitution  ;  for  if  the  committee 
were  not  respected,  and  had  not  at  least,  in  their  differ- 
ences, a  common  standard  of  conduct,  they  would  bring 
the  institution  to  the  ground.  Nothing  further  was  said 
in  Jude's  presence,  but  he  knew  what  this  meant ;  and, 
turning  to  the  table,  wrote  a  note  resigning  his  office  there 
and  then. 

Thus  the  supersensitive  couple  were  more  and  more  im- 
pelled to  go  away.  And  then  bills  were  sent  in,  and  the 
question  arose,  what  could  Jude  do  with  his  great-aunt's 
heavy  old  furniture  if  he  left  the  town  to  travel  he  knew 
not  whither.''  This,  and  the  necessity  of  ready  money, 
compelled  him  to  decide  on  an  auction,  much  as  he  would 
have  preferred  to  keep  the  venerable  goods. 

The  day  of  the  sale  came  on,  and  Sue  for  the  last  time 


AT    ALDBRICKHAM    AND    ELSEWHERE  361 

cooked  her  own,  the  child's,  and  Jude's  breakfast  in  the 
little  house  he  had  furnished.  It  chanced  to  be  a  wet 
day  ;  moreover,  Sue  was  unwell,  and  not  wishing  to  desert 
her  poor  Jude  in  such  gloomy  circumstances,  for  he  was 
compelled  to  stay  a  while,  she  acted  on  the  suggestion  of 
the  auctioneer's  man,  and  ensconced  herself  in  an  upper 
room,  which  could  be  emptied  of  its  effects,  and  so  kept 
closed  to  the  bidders.  Here  Jude  discovered  her;  and 
with  the  child,  and  their  few  trunks,  baskets,  and  bundles, 
and  two  chairs  and  a  table  that  were  not  in  the  sale,  the 
two  sat  in  meditative  talk. 

Footsteps  began  stamping  up  and  down  the  bare  stairs, 
the  comers  inspecting  the  goods,  some  of  which  were  of 
so  quaint  and  ancient  a  make  as  to  acquire  an  adventi- 
tious value  as  art.  Their  door  was  tried  once  or  twice, 
and  to  guard  themselves  against  intrusion  Jude  wrote 
"  Private  "  on  a  scrap  of  paper,  and  stuck  it  upon  the 
panel. 

They  soon  found  that,  instead  of  the  furniture,  their 
own  personal  histories  and  past  conduct  began  to  be  dis- 
cussed to  an  unexpected  and  intolerable  extent  by  the  in- 
tending bidders.  It  was  not  till  now  that  they  really  dis- 
covered what  a  fool's  paradise  of  supposed  unrecogni- 
tion  they  had  been  living  in  of  late.  Sue  silently  took 
her  companion's  hand,  and  with  eyes  on  each  other  they 
heard  these  passing  remarks  —  the  quaint  and  mysteri- 
ous personality  of  Father  Time  being  a  subject  which 
formed  a  large  ingredient  in  the  hints  and  innuendoes. 
At  length  the  auction  began  in  the  room  below,  whence 
they  could  hear  each  familiar  article  knocked  down,  the 
highly  prized  ones  cheaply,  the  unconsidered  at  an  unex- 
pected price. 

"  People  don't  understand  us,"  he  sighed,  heavily.  "  I 
am  glad  we  have  decided  to  go." 

"  The  question  is,  where  to  ?" 

"  It  ought  to  be  to  London.  There  one  can  live  as  one 
chooses." 


362  JUDE   THE  OBSCURE 

"  No — not  London,  dear!  I  know  it  well.  We  should 
be  unhappy  there." 

"  Why  ?" 

"Can't  you  think.'" 

"  Because  Arabella  is  there  .-*" 

"That's  the  chief  reason." 

"  But  in  the  country  I  shall  always  be  uneasy  lest  there 
should  be  some  more  of  our  late  experience.  And  I  don't 
care  to  lessen  it  by  explaining,  for  one  thing,  all  about  the 
boy's  history.  To  cut  him  off  from  his  past  I  have  de- 
termined to  keep  silence.  I  am  sickened  of  ecclesiastical 
work  now,  and  I  shouldn't  like  to  accept  it  if  offered  me  !" 

"  You  ought  to  have  learned  Classic.  Gothic  is  barbaric 
art,  after  all.  Pugin  was  wrong,  and  Wren  was  right. 
Remember  the  interior  of  Christminster  Cathedral — al- 
most the  first  place  in  which  we  looked  in  each  other's 
faces.  Under  the  picturesqueness  of  those  Norman 
details  one  can  see  the  grotesque  childishness  of  un- 
couth people  trying  to  imitate  the  vanished  Roman 
forms,  remembered  by  dim  tradition  only." 

"  Yes,  you  have  half  conv^erted  me  to  that  view  by  what 
you  have  said  before.  But  one  can  work,  and  despise 
what  one  does.  I  must  do  something,  if  not  church- 
gothic." 

"  I  wish  we  could  both  follow  an  occupation  in  which 
personal  circumstances  don't  count,"  she  said,  smiling  up 
wistfully.  "I  am  as  disqualified  for  teaching  as  you  are 
for  ecclesiastical  art.  You  must  fall  back  upon  railway 
stations,  bridges,  theatres,  music-halls,  hotels — everything 
that  has  no  connection  with  conduct." 

"  I  am  not  skilled  in  those.  ...  I  ought  to  take  to  bread- 
baking.  I  grew  up  in  the  baking  business  with  aunt,  you 
know.  But  even  a  baker  must  be  conventional  to  get 
customers." 

"  Unless  he  keeps  a  cake  and  gingerbread  stall  at  mar- 
kets and  fairs,  where  people  are  gloriously  indifferent  to 
everything  except  the  quality  of  the  goods." 


AT   ALDBRICKHAM    AND    ELSEWHERE  363 

Their  thoughts  were  diverted  by  the  voice  of  the  auc- 
tioneer :  "  Now  this  antique  oak  settle— a  unique  example 
of  old  English,  furniture,  worthy  the  attention  of  all  col- 
lectors." 

"  That  was  my  great-grandfather's,"  said  Jude.  "  I  wish 
we  could  have  kept  the  poor  old  thing !" 

One  by  one  the  articles  went,  and  the  afternoon  passed 
away.  Jude  and  the  other  two  were  getting  tired  and 
hungry,  but  after  the  conversation  they  had  heard  they 
were  shy  of  going  out  while  the  purchasers  were  in  their 
line  of  retreat.  However,  the  later  lots  drew  on,  and  it 
became  necessary  to  emerge  into  the  rain  soon,  to  take  on 
Sue's  things  to  their  temporary  lodging. 

"  Now  the  next  lot :  two  pairs  of  pigeons,  all  alive  and 
plump  —  a  nice  pie  for  somebody  for  next  Sunday's 
dinner." 

The  impending  sale  of  these  birds  had  been  the  most 
trying  suspense  of  the  whole  afternoon.  They  were  Sue's 
pets,  and  when  it  was  found  that  they  could  not  possibly 
be  kept,  more  sadness  was  caused  than  by  parting  from 
all  the  furniture.  Sue  tried  to  think  away  her  tears  as 
she  heard  the  trifling  sum  that  her  dears  were  deemed  to 
be  worth  advanced  by  small  stages  to  the  price  at  which 
they  were  finally  knocked  down.  The  purchaser  was  a 
neighboring  poulterer,  and  they  were  unquestionably 
doomed  to  die  before  the  next  market-day. 

Seeing  her  dissembled  distress  Jude  kissed  her,  and 
said  it  was  time  to  go  and  see  if  the  lodgings  were  ready. 
He  would  go  on  with  the  boy,  and  fetch  her  soon. 

When  she  was  left  alone  she  waited  patiently,  but  Jude 
did  not  come  back.  At  last  she  started,  the  coast  being 
clear,  and  on  passing  the  poulterer's  shop,  not  far  off,  she 
saw  her  pigeons  in  a  hamper  by  the  door.  An  emotion  at 
sight  of  them,  assisted  by  the  growing  dusk  of  evening, 
caused  her  to  act  on  impulse,  and  first  looking  around  her 
quickly,  she  pulled  out  the  peg  which  fastened  down  the  -  ^ 
cover,  and  went  on.     The  cover  was  lifted  from  within,       l*^ ' 


f\ 


i 


364  JUDE  THE  OBSCURE 

and  the   pigeons  flew  away  with  a  clatter  that  brought 
the  chagrined  poulterer  cursing  and  swearing  to  the  door. 

Sue  reached  the  lodging  trembling,  and  found  Jude  and 
the  boy  making  it  comfortable  for  her.  "  Do  the  buyers 
pay  before  they  bring  away  the  things  ?"  she  asked,  breath- 
lessly. 

"Yes,  I  think.     Why?" 

"  Because,  then,  I've  done  such  a  wicked  thing!"  And 
she  explained,  in  bitter  contrition. 

"  I  shall  have  to  pay  the  poulterer  for  them  if  he  doesn't 
catch  them,"  said  Jude.  "  But  never  mind.  Don't  fret 
about  it,  dear." 

"  It  was  so  foolish  of  me !     Oh,  why  should  Nature's 
-J^        law  be  mutual  butchery  !" 

"  Is  it  so,  mother  ?"  asked  the  boy,  intently. 

"  Yes  !"  said  Sue,  vehemently. 

"  Well,  they  must  take  their  chance,  now,  poor  things," 
said  Jude.  "As  soon  as  the  sale -account  is  wound  up, 
and  our  bills  paid,  we  go." 

"  Where  do  we  go  to  ?"  asked  Time,  in  suspense. 

"  We  must  sail  under  sealed  orders,  that  nobody  may 
trace  us.  .  .  .  We  mustn't  go  to  Alfredston,  or  to  Melches- 
ter,  or  to  Shaston,  or  to  Christminster.  Apart  from  those 
we  may  go  anywhere." 

"  Why  mustn't  we  go  there,  father?" 

"  Because  of  a  cloud  that  has  gathered  over  us  ;  though 
'  we  have  wronged  no  man,  corrupted  no  man,  defrauded 

^ no  man  !'     Though  perhaps  we  have  '  done  that  which  was 

~/~    right  in  our  own  eyes.'  " 


«-^ 


VII 

From  that  week  Jude  Fawley  and  Sue  walked  no  more 
in  the  town  of  Aldbrickham. 

Whither  they  had  gone  nobody  knew,  chiefly  because 
uobody  cared  to  know.  Any  one  sufficienth^  curious  to 
trace  the  steps  of  such  an  obscure-pair  might  havediscov^- 
ered  without  great  trouble  that  they  had  taken  advantage 
of  his  adaptiv^e  craftsmanship  to  enter  on  a  shifting,  al- 
most nomadic,  life,  which  was  not  without  its  pleasant- 
ness for  a  time. 

Wherever  Jude  heard  of  freestone  work  to  be  done 
thither  he  went,  choosing  by  preference  places  remote 
from  his  old  haunts  and  Sue's.  He  labored  at  a  job,  long 
or  briefly,  till  it  was  finished,  and  then  moved  on. 

Two  whole  years  and  a  half  passed  thus.  Sometimes 
he  might  have  been  found  shaping  the  mullions  of  a 
country  mansion,  sometimes  setting  the  parapet  of  a 
town -hall,  sometimes  ashlaring  a  hotel  at  Sandbourne, 
sometimes  a  museum  at  Casterbridge,  sometimes  as  far 
down  as  Exonbury,  sometimes  at  Stoke-Barehills.  Later 
still  he  was  at  Kennetbridge,  a  thriving  town  not  more 
than  a  dozen  miles  south  of  Marygrecn,  this  being  his 
nearest  approach  to  the  village  where  he  was  known  ;  for 
he  had  a  sensitive  dread  of  being  questioned  as  to  his  life 
and  fortunes  by  those  who  had  been  acquainted  with  him 
during  his  ardent  young  manhood  of  study  and  promise, 
and  his  brief  and  unhappy  married  life  at  that  time. 

At  some  of  these  places  he  would  be  detained  for 
months,  at  others  only  a  few  weeks.  His  curious  and 
sudden  antipathy  to  ecclesiastical  work,  both  episcopal 


366  JUDE   THE  OBSCURE 

and  non-conformist,  which  had  risen  in  him  when  suffer- 
ing under  a  smarting  sense  of  misconception,  remained 
with  him  in  cold  blood,  less  from  any  fear  of  renewed  cen- 
sure than  from  an  ultra-conscientiousness  which  would 
not  allow  him  to  seek  a  living  out  of  those  who  would 
disapprove  of  his  ways;  also,  too,  from  a  sense  of  incon- 
sistency between  his  former  dogmas  and  his  present  prac- 
tice, hardly  a  shred  of  the  beliefs  with  which  he  had  first 
gone  up  to  Christminster  now  remaining  with  him.  He 
'~)  was  mentally  approachj^ng  the  position  which  Sue  had 
^      occu^Bied-Wl^ifiilJie  first'met  her. 

On  a  Saturday  evening  in  Ma)%  nearly  three  years  after 
Arabella's  recognition  of  Sue  and  himself  at  the  Agricult- 
ural Show,  some  of  those  who  there  encountered  each 
other  met  again. 

It  was  the  spring  fair  at  Kennetbridge,  and,  though  this 
ancient  trade-meeting  had  much  dwindled  from  its  di- 
mensions of  former  times,  the  long,  straight  street  of  the 
borough  presented  a  lively  scene  about  mid-day.  At  this 
hour  a  light  trap,  among  other  vehicles,  was  driven  into 
the  town  by  the  north  road,  and  up  to  the  door  of  a  tem- 
perance inn.  There  alighted  two  women,  one  the  driver, 
an  ordinary  country  person,  the  other  a  finely  builMigure 
in  the  deep  mourning  of  a  widow.  Her  sombre  suit,  of 
pronounced  cut,  caused  her  to  appear  a  little  out  of  place 
in  the  medley  and  bustle  of  a  provincial  fair. 

"I  will  just  find  out  where  it  is,  Anny,"said  the  widow- 
lady  to  her  companion,  when  the  horse  and  cart  had  been 
taken  by  a  man  who  came  forward,  "and  then  I'll  come 
back  and  meet  you  here,  and  we'll  go  in  and  have  some- 
thing to  cat  and  drink.  I  begin  to  feel  quite  a  sink- 
ing." 

"  With  all  my  heart,"  said  the  other,  "though  I  would 
sooner  have  put  up  at  the  Checkers  or  The  Jack.  You 
can't  get  much  at  these  temperance  houses." 

"  Now,  don't  you  give  way  to  gluttonous  desires,  my 
child,"  said  the  woman  in  weeds,  reprovingly.     "  This  is 


AT   ALDBRICKHAM   AND   ELSEWHERE  367 

the  proper  place.  Very  well ;  we'll  meet  in  half  an  hour, 
unless  you  come  with  me  to  find  out  where  the  site  of  the 
new  chapel  is." 

"  I  don't  care  to.     You  can  tell  me." 

The  companions  then  went  their  several  ways,  the  one 
in  crape  walking  firmly  along  with  a  mien  of  disconnec- 
tion from  her  miscellaneous  surroundings.  Making  in- 
quiries, she  came  to  a  hoarding,  within  which  were  exca- 
vations denoting  the  foundations  of  a  building;  and  on 
the  boards  without  one  or  two  large  posters  announcing 
that  the  foundation-stone  of  the  chapel  about  to  be  erect- 
ed would  be  laid  that  afternoon  at  three  o'clock  by  a  Lon- 
don preacher  of  great  popularity  among  his  body. 

Having  ascertained  thus  much,  the  immensely  weeded 
widow  retraced  her  steps,  and  gave  herself  leisure  to  ob- 
serve the  movements  of  the  fair.  By-and-by  her  attention 
was  arrested  by  a  little  stall  of  cakes  and  gingerbreads, 
standing  between  the  more  pretentious  erections  of  tres- 
tles and  canvas.  It  was  covered  with  an  imrftaculate 
cloth,  and  tended  by  a  young  woman  apparently  unused 
to  the  business,  she  being  accompanied  by  a  boy  with  an 
octogenarian  face,  who  assisted  her. 

"  Upon  my — senses  !"  murmured  the  widow  to  herself. 
"  His  wife  Sue- — if  she  is  so !"  She  drew  nearer  to  the 
stall.  "  How  do  you  do,  Mrs.  Fawley  ?"  she  said, 
blandly. 

Sue  changed  color,  and  recognized  Arabella  through 
the  crape  veil. 

"  How  are  you,  Mrs.  Cartlett?"  she  said,  stifl3y.  And 
then,  perceiving  Arabella's  garb,  her  voice  grew  sympa- 
thetic in  spite  of  herself.     "  What  I  you  have  lost — " 

"  My  poor  husband.  Yes.  He  died  suddenly,  six  weeks 
ago,  leaving  me  none  too  well  olT,  though  he  was  a  kind 
husband  to  me.  But  whatever  profit  there  is  in  public- 
house  keeping  goes  to  them  that  brew  the  liquors,  and 
not  to  them  that  retail  'em.  .  .  .  And  you,  my  little  old 
man !     You  don't  know  me,  I  expect .-'" 


368  JUDE  THE  OBSCURE 

"Yes,  I  do.  You  be  the  woman  I  thought  wer  my 
mother  for  a  bit,  till  I  found  5'ou  wasn't,"  replied  Father 
Time,  who  had  learned  to  use  the  Wessex  tongue  quite 
naturally  by  now. 

"  All  right.     Never  mind.     I  am  a  friend." 

"Juey."  said  Sue,  suddenly,  "go  down  to  the  station 
platform  with  this  tray — there's  another  train  coming  in, 
I  think." 

When  he  was  gone  Arabella  continued :"  He'll  never 
be  a  beauty,  will  he,  poor  chap!  Does  he  know  I  am  his 
mother  really?" 

"  No.  He  thinks  there  is  some  mystery  about  his  par- 
entage— that's  all.  Jude  is  going  to  tell  him  when  he  is 
a  little  older." 

"But  how  do  you  come  to  be  doing  this?  I  am  sur- 
prised." 

"It  is  only  a  temporary  occupation  —  a  fancy  of  ours 
while  we  are  in  a  difficulty." 

"Then  you  are  living  with  him  still?" 

"Yes." 

"  Married  ?" 

"  Of  course." 

"  Any  children  ?" 

"  Two." 

"And  another  coming  soon,  I  see." 

Sue  writhed  under  the  hard  and  direct  questioning, 
and  her  tender  little  mouth  began  to  quiver. 

"Lord — I  mean  goodness  gracious — what  is  there  to 
cry  about  ?     Some  folks  would  be  proud  enough  !" 

"  It  is  not  that  I  am  ashamed — not  as  you  think !  But 
I  it  seems  such  a  terribly  tragic  thing  to  bring  beings  into 
'  the  world — so  presumptuous  —  that  I  question  my  right 
^  to  do  it  sometimes  !" 

"  Take  it  easy,  my  dear.  .  .  .  But  you  don't  tell  me  why 
you  do  such  a  thing  as  this?  Jude  used  to  be  a  proud 
sort  of  chap — above  any  business  almost,  leave  alone  keep- 
ing a  standing." 


1^ 

AT   ALDBRICKHAM   AND   ELSEWHERE  369 

"  Perhaps  my  husband  has  altered  a  httle  since  then. 
I  am  not  sure  he  is  not  proud  now,"  and  Sue's  lips  quiv- 
ered again.  "  I  am  doing  this  because  he  caught  a  chill 
early  in  the  year  while  putting  up  some  stone-work  of  a 
music-hall  at  Ouartershot,  which  he  had  to  do  in  the 
rain,  the  work  having  to  be  executed  by  a  fixed  day.  He 
is  better  than  he  was  ;  but  it  has  been  a  long,  weary  time  ! 
We  have  had  an  old  widow  friend  with  us  to  help  us 
through  it ;  but  she's  leaving  soon." 

"  Well,  I  am  respectable  too,  thank  God,  and  of  a  seri- 
ous way  of  thinking  since  my  loss.  Why  did  you  choose 
to  sell  gingerbreads.'" 

"  That's  a  pure  accident.  He  was  brought  up  to  the 
baking  business,  and  it  occurred  to  him  to  try  his  hand 
at  these,  which  he  can  make  without  coming  out-of-doors. 
We  call  them  Christminster  cakes.  They  are  a  great  suc- 
cess." 

"  I  never  saw  any  like  'em.  Why,  they  are  windows 
and  towers  and  pinnacles  !  And  upon  my  word,  they  are 
very  nice."  She  had  helped  herself,  and  was  unceremo- 
niously munching  one  of  the  cakes. 

"Yes.  They  are  reminiscences  of  the  Christminster 
Colleges.  Traceried  windows  and  cloisters,  you  see.  It 
was  a  whim  of  his  to  do  them  in  pastry." 

"Still  harping  on  Christminster — even  in  his  cakes!'' 
laughed  Arabella.  "Just  like  Jude.  A  ruling  passion. 
What  a  queer  fellow  he  is,  and  always  will  be  !" 

Sue  sighed,  and  she  looked  her  distress  at  hearing  him 
criticised. 

"  Don't  you  think  he  is  .-*  Come,  now,  you  do,  though 
you  are  so  fond  of  him  !  " 

"  Of  course  Christminster  is  a  sort  of  fixed  vision  with 
him,  which  I  suppose  he'll  never  be  cured  of  believing  in. 
He  still  thinks  it  a  great  centre  of  high  and  fearless 
thought,  instead  of  what  it  is — a  nest  of  commonplace 
school-masters,  whose  characteristic  is  timid  obsequious- 
ness to  tradition." 
24 


yjO  JUDE   THE  OBSCURE 

Arabella  was  quizzing  Sue  with  more  regard  of  how  she 
was  speaking  than  of  what  she  was  saying.  "  How  odd  to 
hear  a  woman  selling  cakes  talk  like  that !"  she  said. 
"  Why  don't  you  go  back  to  school-keeping  ?" 

Sue  shook  her  head.     "  They  won't  have  me." 

"  Because  of  the  divorce,  I  suppose  ?" 

"That,  and  other  things.  And  there  is  no  reason  to 
v/ish  it.  We  gave  up  all  ambition,  and  were  never  so 
happy  in  our  lives  till  his  illness  came." 

"  Where  are  you  living  }" 

"  I  don't  care  to  say." 

"  Here  in  Kennetbridge  .''" 

Sue's  manner  showed  Arabella  that  her  random  .guess 
was  right. 

"  Here  comes  the  boy  back  again,"  continued  Arabella. 
"  My  boy  and  Jude's  ! ' 

Sue's  eyes  darted  a  spark.  "  You  needn't  throw  that  in 
my  face  !"  she  cried. 

"Very  well;  though  I  half  feel  as  if  I  should  like  to 
have  him  with  me!  .  .  .  But,  Lord,  I  don't  want  to  take 
him  from  'ee — ever  I  should  sin  to  speak  so  profane — 
though  I  should  think  you  must  have  enough  of  your  own  ! 
He's  in  very  good  hands,  that  I  know;  and  I  am  not  the 
woman  to  find  fault  with  what  the  Lord  has  ordained. 
I've  reached  a  more  resigned  frame  of  mind." 

"  Indeed  !     I  wish  I  had  been  able  to  do  so." 

"  You  should  try,"  replied  the  widow,  from  the  serene 
heights  of  a  mind  conscious  not  only  of  spiritual  but  of 
social  superiority.  "  I  make  no  boast  of  my  awakening, 
but  I'm  not  what  I  was.  After  Cartlett's  death  I  was 
passing  the  chapel  in  the  street  next  ours,  and  went  into 
it  for  shelter  from  a  shower  of  rain.  I  felt  a  need  of  some 
sort  of  support  under  my  loss,  and,  as  'twas  righter  than 
gin,  I  took  to  going  there  regular,  and  found  it  a  great 
comfort.  But  I've  left  London  now,  you  know,  and  at 
present-  I  am  living  at  Alfredston,  with  my  friend  Anny, 
to  be  near  my  own   old  country.     I'm  not  come  here  to 


AT    ALDBRICKHAM    AND    ELSEWHERE  yjl 

the  fair  to-day.     There's  to  be  the  foundation-stone  of  a 
new  chapel    laid    this  afternoon    by  a    popular    London 
preacher,  and  I  drove  over  with  Anny.     Now  I  must  go 
back  to  meet  her." 
Then  Arabella  wished  Sue  good-bye,  and  went  on. 


VIII 

In  the  afternoon  Sue  and  the  other  people  bustling 
about  Kennetbridge  fair  could  hear  singing  inside  the 
placarded  hoarding  farther  down  the  street.  Those  who 
peeped  through  the  opening  saw  a  crowd  of  persons  in 
broadcloth,  with  hymn-books  in  their  hands,  standing 
round  the  excavations  for  the  new  chapel  walls.  Arabella 
Cartlett  and  her  weeds  stood  among  them.  She  had  a 
clear,  powerful  voice,  which  could  be  distinctly  heard  with 
the  rest,  rising  and  falling  to  the  tune,  her  inflated  bosom 
being  also  seen  doing  likewise. 

It  was  two  hours  later  on  the  same  day  that  Anny  and 
Mrs.  Cartlett,  having  had  tea  at  the  Temperance  Hotel, 
started  on  their  return  journey  across  the  high  and  open 
country  which  stretches  between  Kennetbridge  and  Al- 
fredston.  Arabella  was  in  a  thoughtful  mood  ;  but  her 
thoughts  were  not  of  the  new  chapel,  as  Anny  at  first  sur- 
mised. 

"  No — it  is  something  else,"  at  last  said  Arabella,  sullen- 
ly. "  I  came  here  to-day  never  thinking  of  anybody  but 
poor  Cartlett,  or  of  anything  but  spreading  the  Gospel  by 
means  of  this  new  tabernacle  they've  begun  this  after- 
noon. But  something  has  happened  to  turn  my  mind  an- 
other way  quite.  Anny,  I've  heard  of  un  again,  and  I've 
seen  her  /" 

"Who.?" 

"  I've  heard  of  Jude,  and  I've  seen  his  wife.  And  ever 
since,  do  what  I  will,  and  though  I  sung  the  hymns  wi' 
all  my  strength,  I  have  not  been  able  to  help  thinking 
about  'n  ;  which  I've  no  right  to  do  as  a  chapel  member." 


AT    ALDBRICKHAM    AND    ELSEWHERE  373 

"  Can't  ye  fix  your  mind  upon  what  was  said  by  the  Lon- 
don preacher  to-day,  and  try  to  get  rid  of  your  wanderinji 
fancies  that  way  ?" 

"  I  do.  But  my  wiciced  heart  will  ramble  ofT  in  spite  of 
myself." 

"  Well — I  know  what  it  is  to  have  a  wanton  mind  o'  my 
own,  too!  If  you  on'y  knew  what  I  do  dream  sometimes 
o'  nights  quite  against  my  wishes,  you'd  say  I  had  my 
struggles  !"  (Anny,  too,  had  grown  rather  serious  of  late, 
her  lover  having  jilted  her.) 

"What  shall  I  do  about  it.^"  urged  Arabella,  morbidly. 

"  You  could  take  a  lock  of  your  late-lost  husband's  hair, 
and  have  it  made  into  a  mourning  brooch,  and  look  at  it 
every  hour  of  the  day.  " 

"  I  haven't  a  morsel !— and  if  I  had  'twould  be  no  good. 
.  .  .  After  all  that's  said  about  the  comforts  of  this  relig- 
ion, I  wish  I  had  Jude  back  again  I " 

"You  must  fight  valiant  against  the  feeling,  since  he's 
another's.  And  I've  heard  that  another  good  thing  for  it, 
when  it  afflicts  volupshious  widows,  is  to  go  to  your  hus- 
band's grave  in  the  dusk  of  evening,  and  stand  a  long 
while  a-bowed  down." 

"  Pooh  !  I  know  as  well  as  you  what  I  must  do ;  only 
I  don't  do  it ! " 

They  drove  in  silence  along  the  straight  road  till  they 
were  within  the  horizon  of  Marygreen,  which  lay  not  far 
to  the  left  of  their  route.  They  came  to  the  junction  of 
the  highway  and  the  cross-lane  leading  to  that  village, 
whose  church-tower  could  be  seen  athwart  the  hollow. 
When  they  got  yet  farther  on.  and  were  passing  the 
lonely  house  in  which  Arabella  and  Jude  had  lived  dur- 
ing the  first  months  of  their  marriage,  and  where  the 
pig-killing  had  taken  place,  she  could  control  herself  no 
longer. 

"  He's  more  mine  than  hers  !  '  she  burst  out.  "  What 
right  has  she  to  him,  I  should  like  to  know  I  I'd  take 
him  from  her  if  I  could  I " 


374  JUDE   THE   OBSCURE 

"  Fie,  Abby  !  And  your  husband  only  a  month  gone  ! 
Pray  against  it  I" 

"  Be  damned  if  I  do!  Feelings  arc  feelings  !  I  won't 
be  a  creeping  hypocrite  any  longer— so  there  !" 

Arabella  had  hastily  drawn  from  lier  pocket  a  bundle 
of  tracts  which  she  had  brought  with  her  to  distribute  at 
the  fair,  and  of  which  she  had  given  away  several.  As 
she  spoke  she  flung  the  whole  remainder  of  tlie  packet 
into  the  hedge.  "  I've  tried  that  sort  o'  physic  and  have 
failed  wi'  it.     1  must  be  as  I  was  born  !" 

"  Hush  !  You  be  excited,  dear  !  Now  you  come  along 
home  quiet,  and  have  a  cup  of  tea,  and  don't  let  us  talk 
about  un  no  more.  We  won't  come  out  this  road  again, 
as  it  leads  to  where  he  is,  because  it  inflames  'ee  so. 
You'll  be  all  right  again  soon." 

Arabella  did  calm  herself  down  by  degrees  ;  and  they 
crossed  the  Ridge-way.  When  they  began  to  descend 
the  long,  straight  hill,  they  saw  plodding  along  in  front 
of  them  an  elderly  man  of  spare  stature  and  thoughtful 
gait.  In  his  hand  he  carried  a  basket ;  and  there  was  a 
touch  of  slovenliness  in  his  attire,  together  with  that  in- 
definable something  in  his  whole  appearance  which  sug- 
gested one  who  was  his  own  housekeeper,  purveyor,  con- 
fidant, and  friend,  through  possessing  nobody  else  at  all 
in  the  world  to  act  in  those  capacities  for  him.  The  re- 
mainder of  the  journey  was  down  hill,  and  guessing  him 
to  be  going  to  Alfredston,  they  offered  him  a  lift,  which 
he  accepted. 

Arabella  looked  at  him,  and  looked  again,  till  at  length 
she  spoke.  "  If  I  don't  mistake  I  am  talking  to  Mr.  Phil- 
lotson  ?" 

The  wayfarer  faced  round  and  regarded  her  in  turn. 
"Yes;  my  name  is  Phillotson,"  he  said.  "But  I  don't 
recognize  you,  ma'am." 

"  I  remember  you  well  enough  when  you  used  to  be 
school-master  out  at  Marygreen,  and  I  one  of  your  schol- 
ars.   I  used  to  walk  up  there  from  Cresscombe  every  day, 


AT    ALDBRICKHAM    AND    ELSEWHERE  375 

because  we  had  only  a  mistress  down  at  our  place,  and 
you  taught  better.  But  you  wouldn't  remember  me  as  I 
should  you? — Arabella  Donn.  " 

He  shook  his  head.  "  No,"  he  said,  politely,  "  I  don't 
recall  the  name.  And  I  should  hardly  recognize  in  your 
present  portly  self  the  slim  school  child  no  doubt  you 
were  then." 

"  Well,  I  always  had  plenty  of  flesh  on  my  bones.  How- 
ever, I  am  staying  down  here  with  some  friends  at  pres- 
ent.    You  know,  I  suppose,  who  I  married .''" 

"No." 

"Jude  Fawley  —  also  a  scholar  of  yours  —  at  least  a 
night-scholar — for  some  little  time,  I  think.-*  And  known 
to  you  afterwards,  if  I  am  not  mistaken." 

"  Dear  me,  dear  me,"  said  Phillotson,  starting  out  of 
his  stiffness.  "  Voti  Fawley 's  wife  ?  To  be  sure — he  had 
a  wife  !     And  he — I  understood — " 

"  Divorced  her — as  you  did  yours — perhaps  for  better 
reasons." 

"Indeed.'" 

"  Well — he  med  have  been  right  in  doing  it — right  for 
both;  for  I  soon  married  again,  and  all  went  pretty 
straight  till  my  husband  died  lately.  But  you — you  were 
decidedly  wrong." 

"  No,"  said  Phillotson,  with  sudden  testiness.  "  I 
would  rather  not  talk  of  this,  but — I  am  convinced  I  did 
only  what  was  right,  and  just,  and  moral.  I  have  suf- 
fered for  my  act  and  opinions,  but  I  hold  to  them; 
though  her  loss  was  a  loss  to  me  in  more  ways  than 
one  !" 

"  You  lost  your  school  and  good  income  through  her, 
did  you  not  ?" 

"  I  don't  care  to  talk  of  it.  I  have  recently  come  back 
here — to  Marygreen,  I  mean." 

"  You  are  keeping  the  school  there  again,  just  as  for- 
merly .•*" 

The  pressure  of  a  sadness  that  would  out  unsealed  him. 


376  JUDE  THE  OBSCURE 

'■  I  am  there,'  he  replied.  "  Just  as  formerly,  no.  Merely 
on  sufferance.  It  was  a  last  resource — a  small  thing  to 
return  to  after  my  move  upwards,  and  my  long  indulged 
hopes — a  returning  to  zero,  with  all  its  humiliations.  But 
it  is  a  refuge.  I  like  the  seclusion  of  the  place;  and  the 
\Mcar,  having  known  me  before  my  so-called  eccentric 
conduct  towards  my  wife  had  ruined  my  reputation  as 
a  school- master,  accepted  my  services  when  all  other 
schools  were  closed  against  me.  However,  although  I 
take  fifty  pounds  a  year  here  after  taking  above  two  hun- 
dred elsewhere.  I  prefer  it  to  running  the  risk  of  having 
rny  old  domestic  experiences  raked  up  against  me,  as  I 
should  do  if  I  tried  to  make  a  move." 

"  Right  you  are.  A  contented  mind  is  a  continual 
feast.     She  has  done  no  better." 

"  She  is  not  doing  well,  you  mean  .'" 

"I  met  her  by  accident  at  Kennetbridge  this  very  day, 
and  she  is  anything  but  thriving.  Her  husband  is  ill,  and 
she  anxious.  You  made  a  fool  of  a  mistake  about  her,  I 
tell  'ee  again,  and  the  harm  you  did  yourself  by  dirting 
your  own  nest  serves  you  right,  excusing  the  liberty." 

"  How  .'" 

"  She  was  innocent." 

"  But  nonsense !     They  did  not  even  defend  the  case  !" 

"  That  was  because  they  didn't  care  to.  She  was  quite 
innocent  of  what  obtained  you  your  freedom,  at  the  time 
you  obtained  it.  I  saw  her  just  afterwards,  and  proved  it 
to  myself  completely  by  talking  to  her." 

PhillqtSpn  grasped  the  edge  of  the  spring -cart,  and 
appeared 'to  be  much  stressed  and  worried  by  the  infor- 
mation.    "  Still — she  wanted  to  go,"  he  said. 

"  Yes.  But  you  shouldn't  have  let  her.  That's  the 
only  way  with  these  fanciful  women  that  chaw  high — 
innocent  or  guilty.  She'd  have  come  round  in  time. 
We  all  do  !  Custom  does  it !  it's  all  the  same  in  the  end  ! 
FMwever,  I  think  she's  fond  of  her  man  still — whatever 
he  reed  be  of  her.     You  were  too  quick  about  her.     / 


AT    ALDBRICKHAM    AXD    ELSEWHERE  377 

shouldn't  have  let  her  go!  I  should  have  kept  her 
chained  on  —  her  spirit  for  kicking  would  have  been 
broke  soon  enough  1  There's  nothing  like  bondage  and 
a  stone-deaf  task-master  for  taming  us  women.  Besides, 
you've  got  the  laws  on  your  side.  Moses  knew.  Don't 
you  call  to  mind  what  he  says.'" 

"  Not  for  the  moment,  ma'am,  I  regret  to  say." 
"Call  yourself  a  school-master!  I  used  to  think  o't 
when  they  read  it  in  church,  and  I  was  carrying  on  a  bit. 
'  Then  shall  the  man  be  guiltless  ;  but  the  woman  shall 
bear  her  iniquity.'  Damn  rough  on  us  women  ;  but  we 
must  grin  and  put  up  wi'  it! — Haw  haw !— Well,  she's 
got  her  deserts  now." 

"  Yes,"  said  Phillotson,  with  biting  sadness.  "  Cruelty 
is  the  law  pervading  all  nature  and  society ;  and  we  can't 
<ret  out  of  it  if  we  would  !" 

"Well — don't  you  forget  to  try  it  next  time,  old  man." 
"  I  cannot  answer  you.  madam.     I  have  never  known 
much  of  womankind." 

They  had  now  reached  the  low  levels  bordering  Alfred- 
ston,  and.  passing  through  the  outskirts,  approached  a 
mill,  to  which  Phillotson  said  his  errand  led  him;  where- 
upon they  drew  up.  and  he  alighted,  bidding  them  good- 
night in  a  preoccupied  mood. 

In  the  mean  time  Sue,  though  remarkably  successful  in 
her  provisional  business  at  Kennetbridge  fair,  had  lost 
the  temporary  brightness  whicli  had  begun  to  sit  upon 
her  sadness  on  account  of  that  success.  When  all  her 
"  Christminster"  cakes  had  been  disposed  of  she  took 
upon  her  arm  the  empty  basket,  and  the  cloth  which  had 
covered  the  standing  she  had  hired,  and  giving  the  other 
things  to  the  boy  left  the  street  with  him.  They  followed 
a  lane  to  a  distance  of  half  a  mile,  till  they  met  an  old 
woman  carrying  a  child  in  short  clothes,  and  leading  a 
toddler  in  tlie  other  hand. 

Sue  kissed  the  children,  and  said,  "  How  is  he  now?" 


378  JUDE  THE  OBSCURE 

"Still  better!"  returned  Mrs.  Edlin,  cheerfully.  "Be- 
fore you  are  ill  your  husband  will  be  well  enough — don't 
'ee  trouble." 

They  turned,  and  came  to  some  old,  dun-tiled  cottages 
with  gardens  and  fruit-trees.  Into  one  of  these  they  en- 
tered by  lifting  the  latch  without  knocking,  and  were  at 
once  in  the  general  living-room.  Here  they  greeted  Jude, 
who  was  sitting  in  an  arm-chair,  the  increased  delicacy  of 
his  normally  delicate  features,  and  the  childishly  expect- 
ant look  in  his  eyes,  being  alone  sufficient  to  show  that 
he  had  been  passing  through  a  severe  illness. 

"  What  I  you  have  sold  them  all .''"  he  said,  a  gleam  of 
interest  lighting  up  his  face. 

"Yes.  Arcades,  gables,  east  windows,  and  all."  She 
told  him  the  pecuniary  results,  and  then  hesitated.  At 
last,  when  they  were  left  alone,  she  informed  him  of  the 
unexpected  meeting  with  Arabella,  and  the  latter's  wid- 
owhood. 

Jude  was  discomposed.  "What!  is  she  living  here?" 
he  said. 

"  No  ;  at  Alfredston,"  said  Sue. 

Jude's  countenance  remained  clouded.  "  I  thought  I 
had  better  tell  you,"  she  continued,  kissing  him  anx- 
iously. 

"Yes.  .  .  .  Dear  me!  Arabella  not  in  the  depths  of 
London,  but  down  here !  It  is  only  a  little  over  a  dozen 
miles  across  the  country  to  Alfredston.  What  is  she  do- 
ing there  ?" 

She  told  him  all  she  knew.  "  She  has  taken  to  chapel- 
going,"  Sue  added  ;  "  and  talks  accordingly." 

"Well,"  said  Jude,  "perhaps  it  is  for  the  best  that  we 
have  almost  decided  to  move  on.  I  feel  much  better  to- 
day, and  shall  be  well  enough  to  leave  in  a  week  or  two. 
Then  Mrs.  Edlin  can  go  home  again — dear  faithful  old 
soul — the  only  friend  we  have  in  the  world  !" 

"Where  do  you  think  to  go  to.-""  Sue  asked,  a  tearful- 
ness in  her  tones. 


AT    ALDBRICKHAM    AND    ELSEWHERE  379 

Then  Jude  confessed  what  was  in  his  mind.  He  said  it 
would  surprise  her,  perhaps,  after  his  having  resolutely 
avoided  ail  the  old  places  for  so  long.  But  one  thing 
and  another  had  made  him  think  a  great  deal  of  Christ- 
minster  lately,  and,  if  she  didn't  mind,  he  would  like  to 
go  back  there.  Why  should  they  care  if  they  were 
known  ?  It  was  over-sensitive  of  them  to  mind  so  much. 
They  could  go  on  selling  cakes  there,  for  that  matter,  if 
he  couldn't  work.  He  had  no  sense  of  shame  at  mere 
poverty;  and  perhaps  he  would  be  as  strong  as  ever  soon, 
and  able  to  set  up  stone-cutting  for  himself  there. 

"  Why  should  you  care  so  much  for  Christminster  ?" 
she  said,  pensively.  "Christminster  cares  nothing  for 
you,  poor  dear!" 

"Well,  I  do  ;  I  can't  help  it.  I  love  the  place — although 
I  know  how  it  hates  all  men  like  me — the  so-called  Self- 
taught — how  it  scorns  our  labored  acquisitions,  when  it 
should  be  the  first  to  respect  them  ;  how  it  sneers  at  our 
false  quantities  and  mispronunciations,  when  it  should 
say,  I  see  you  want  help,  my  poor  friend  !  .  .  .  Neverthe- 
less, it  is  the  centre  of  the  universe  to  me,  because  of  my 
early  dream  :  and  nothing  can  alter  it.  Perhaps  it  will 
soon  wake  up,  and  be  generous.  I  pray  so  !  ...  I  should 
like  to  go  back  to  live  there — perhaps  to  die  there!  In 
two  or  three  weeks  I  might,  I  think.  It  will  then  be  June, 
and  I  should  like  to  be  there  by  a  particular  day." 

His  hope  that  he  was  recovering  proved  so  far  well 
grounded  that  in  three  weeks  they  had  arrived  in  the  city 
of  many  memories;  were  actually  treading  its  pavements, 
receiving  the  reflection  of  the  sunshine  from  its  wasting 
walls. 


IM- 


PART VI 

AT  CHRISTMINSTER   AGAIN 


"...  And  she  hiimblcd  Iter  body  greatly,  and  all  the  places  of 
her  joy  she  filled  with  her  torn  hair." — E.sther  (Apoc). 

' '  There  are  tiuo  ivho  decline,  a  7ooinan  and  /, 
And  enjoy  our  death  in  the  darkness  here." 

— R.   BUOWNI.NG. 


5U- 


On  their  arrival  the  station  was  Hvely  with  straw-hatted 
young  men,  welcoming  young  girls  who  bore  a  remark- 
able family  likeness  to  their  welcomers,  and  who  were 
dressed  up  in  the  brightest  and  lightest  of  raiment. 

"  The  place  seems  gay,"  said  Sue.  "  Why — it  is  Remem- 
brance Day  ! — Jude — how  sly  of  you — you  came  to-day  on 
purpose !" 

"  Yes,"  said  Jude,  quietly,  as  he  took  charge  of  the  small 
child,  and  told  Arabella's  boy  to  keep  close  to  them.  Sue 
attending  to  their  own  eldest.  "  I  thought  we  might  as 
well  come  to-day  as  on  any  other." 

"  But  I  am  afraid  it  will  depress  you  !"  she  said,  looking 
anxiously  at  him,  up  and  down. 

"Oh,  T  mustn't  let  it  interfere  with  our  business;  and 
we  have  a  good  -deal  to  do  before  we  shall  be  settled  here. 
The  first  thing  is  lodgings." 

Having  left  their  luggage  and  his  tools  at  the  station, 
they  proceeded  on  foot  up  the  familiar  street,  the  holiday 
people  all  drifting  in  the  same  direction.  Reaching  the 
Fourways,  they  were  about  to  turn  olT  to  where  accom- 
modation was  likely  to  be  found  when,  looking  at  the 
clock  and  the  hurrying  crowd,  Jude  said  :  "  Let  us  go  and 
see  the  procession,  and  never  mind  the  lodgings  just  now. 
We  can  get  them  afterwards." 

"  Oughtn't  we  to  get  a  house  over  our  heads  first  ?"  she 
asked. 

But  his  soul  seemed  full  of  the  anniversary,  and  to- 
gether they  went  down  Chief  Street,  their  smallest  child 
in  Jude's  arms.  Sue  leading  her  little  girl,  and  Arabel- 


I 


384  JUDE  THE  OBSCURE 

la's  boy  walking  thoughtfully  and  silently  beside  them. 
Crowds  of  pretty  sisters  in  airy  costumes,  and  meekly 
ignorant  parents,  who  had  known  no  college  in  their 
youth,  were  under  convoy  in  the  same  direction  by  broth- 
ers and  sons  bearing  the  opinion  written  large  on  them 
that  no  properly  qualified  human  beings  had  lived  on  earth 
till  they  came  to  grace  it  here  and  now. 

"  My  failure  is  reflected  on  me  by  every  one  of  those 
young  fellows,"  said  Jude.  "  A  lesson  on  presumption 
is  awaiting  me  to-day  ! — Humiliation  Day  for  me  !  .  .  .  If 
you,  my  dear  darling,  hadn't  come  to  my  rescue,  I  should 
have  gone  to  the  dogs  with  despair  !" 

She  saw  from  his  face  that  he  was  getting  into  one  of 
his  tempestuous,  self-harrowing  moods.  "  It  would  have 
been  better  if  we  had  gone  at  once  about  our  own  affairs, 
dear,"  she  answered.  "  I  am  sure  this  sight  will  awaken 
old  sorrows  in  you,  and  do  no  good  !" 

"  Well — we  are  near ;  we  will  see  it  now,"  said  he. 
They  turned  in  on  the  left  by  the  church  with  the  Ital- 
ian porch,  whose  helical  columns  were  heavily  draped  with 
creepers,  and  pursued  the  lane  till  there  arose  on  Judc's 
sight  the  circular  theatre  with  that  well-known  lantern 
above  it,  which  stood  in  his  mind  as  the  sad  symbol  of 
his  abandoned  hopes;  for  it  was  from  that  outlook  that 
lie  had  finally  surveyed  tl^XTty  of  Colleges  on  the  after- 
noon of  his  great  meditation,  which  convinced  him  at 
last  of  the  futility  of  his  attempt  to  be  a  son  of  the  Uni- 
versity. 

To-day,  in  the  open  space  stretching  between  this 
building  and  the  nearest  college,  stood  a  crowd  of  ex- 
pectant people.  A  passage  was  kept  clear  through  their 
midst  by  two  barriers  of  timber,  extending  from  the  door 
of  the  college  to  the  door  of  the  large  building  between 
it  and  the  theatre. 

"  Here  is  the  place— they  are  just  going  to  pass !"  cried 
Jude,  in  sudden  excitement.  And,  pushing  his  way  to  the 
front,  he  took  up  a  position  close  to  the  barrier,  still  hug- 


AT   CHRISTMINSTER  AGAIN  385 

ging  the  youngest  child  in  his  arms,  while  Sue  and  the 
others  kept  immediately  behind  him.  The  crowd  filled 
in  at  their  back,  and  fell  to  talking,  joking,  and  laughing 
as  carriage  after  carriage  drew  up  at  the  lower  door  of 
the  college,  and  solemn  stately  figures  in  blood-red  robes 
began  to  alight.  The  sky  had  grown  overcast  and  livid, 
and  thunder  rumbled  now  and  then. 

Father  Time  shuddered.  "  It  do  seem  like  the  Judg- 
ment Day!"  he  whispered. 

"  They  are  only  learned  Doctors,"  said  Sue. 

While  they  waited  big  drops  of  rain  fell  on  their  heads 
and  shoulders,  and  the  delay  grew  tedious.  Sue  again 
wished  not  to  stay. 

"They  won't  be  long  now,"  said  Jude,  without  turning 
his  head. 

But  the  procession  did  not  come  forth,  and  somebody 
in  the  crowd,  to  pass  the  time,  looked  at  the  fagade  of  the 
nearest  college,  and  said  he  wondered  what  was  meant  by 
the  Latin  inscription  in  its  midst.  Jude,  who  stood  near 
the  inquirer,  explained  it ;  and  finding  that  the  people  all 
round  him  were  listening  with  interest,  went  on  to  de- 
scribe the  carving  of  the  frieze  (which  he  had  studied 
years  before),  and  to  criticise  some  details  of  masonry  in 
other  college  fronts  about  the  city. 

The  idle  crowd,  including  the  two  policemen  at  the 
doors,  stared  like  the  Lycaonians  at  Paul,  for  Jude  was 
apt  to  get  too  enthusiastic  over  any  subject  in  hand,  and 
they  seemed  to  wonder  how  the  stranger  should  know 
more  about  the  buildings  of  their  town  than  they  them- 
selves did ;  till  one  of  them  said :  "  Why,  I  know  that 
man  ;  he  used  to  work  here  years  ago — Jude  Fawley, 
that's  his  name  !  Don't  you  mind  he  used  to  be  nick- 
named Tutor  of  St.  Slums,  d'ye  mind  ? — because  he  aimed 
at  that  line  o'  business  ?  He's  married,  I  suppose,  then, 
and  that's  his  child  he's  carrying.  Taylor  would  know 
him,  as  he  knows  everybody." 

The  speaker  was  a  man  named  Jack  Stagg,  with  whom 

25 


386  JUDE  THE   OBSCURE 

Jude  had  formerly  worked  in  repairing  the  college  mason- 
ries ;  Tinker  Taylor  was  seen  to  be  standing  near.  Hav- 
ing his  attention  called,  the  latter  cried  across  the  barriers 
to  Jude  :  "  You've  honored  us  by  coming  back  again,  my 
friend  !" 

Jude  nodded. 

"  An'  you  don't  seem  to  have  done  any  great  things  for 
yourself  by  going  away  ?" 
Jude  assented  to  this  also. 

"  Except  found  more  mouths  to  fill  !"  This  came  in  a 
new  voice,  and  Jude  recognized  its  owner  to  be  Uncle 
Joe,  another  mason  whom  he  had  known. 

Jude  replied  good-humoredly  that  he  could  not  dispute 
it;  and  from  remark  to  remark  something  like  a  general 
conversation  arose  between  him  and  the  crowd  of  idlers, 
during  which  Tinker  Taylor  asked  Jude  if  he  remembered 
the  Apostles'  Creed  in  Latin  still,  and  the  night  of  the 
challenge  in  the  public-house. 

"  But   Fortune    didn't   lie    that   way  ?"  threw  in  Joe. 
"  Yer  powers  wasn't  enough  to  carry  'ee  through  }" 
"  Don't  answer  them  any  more  !"  entreated  Sue. 
"  I  don't  think  I  like  Christminster  !"  murmured  little 
Time,  mournfully,  as  he  stood  submerged  and  invisible  in 
the  crowd. 

But  finding  himself  the  centre  of  curiosity,  quizzing, 
and  comment,  Jude  was  not  inclined  to  shrink  from  open 
declarations  of  what  he  had  no  great  reason  to  be  ashamed 
of;  and  in  a  little  while  was  stimulated  to  say  in  a  loud 
voice,  to  the  listening  throng  generally  : 

"  It  is  a  difficult  question,  my  friends,  for  any  young 
man — that  question  I  had  to  grapple  with,  and  which 
thousands  are  weighing  at  the  present  moment  in  these 
uprising  times— whether  to  follow  uncritically  the  track 
he  finds  himself  in,  without  considering  his  aptness  for  it, 
or  to  consider  what  his  aptness  or  bent  may  be,  and  re- 
shape his  co.urse  accordingly.  I  tried  to  do  the  latter, 
and  I  failed.     But  I  don't  admit  that  my  failure  proved 


AT   CHRISTMINSTER  AGAIN  387 

my  view  to  be  a  wrong  one,  or  that  my  success  would 
have  made  it  a  right  one  ;  though  that's  how  we  appraise 
such  attempts  nowadays— I  mean,  not  by  their  essential 
soundness,  but  by  their  -aefeldental  outcomes.  Ij  I  h^' 
ended  by  becoming  lilce  one  of  these  gentlemen  in  red 
and  black  that  we  saw  dropping  in  here  by  now,  every- 
body would  have  said  :  '  See  how  wise  that  young  man 
was,  to  follow  the  bent  of  his  nature  !'  But  having  end- 
ed no  better  than  I  began,  they  say  :  '  See  what  a  fool 
that  fellow  was  in  following  a  freak  of  his  fancy  !' 

"  However,  it  was  my  poverty  and  not  my  will  that 
consented  to  be  beaten.  It  takes  two  or  three  genera- 
tions to  do  what  I  tried  to  do  in  one;  and  my  impulses- 
affections— vices  perhaps  they  should  be  called— were  too 
strong  not  to  hamper  a  man  without  advantages,  who 
should  be  as  cold-blooded  as  a  fish  and  as  selfish  as  a  pig 
to  have  a  really  good  chance  of  being  one  of  his  country's 
worthies.  You  may  ridicule  me— I  am  quite  willing  that 
you  should— I  am  a  fit  subject,  no  doubt.  But  I  think  if 
you  knew  what  I  have  gone  through  these  last  few  years 
you  would  rather  pity  me.  And  if  they  knew  " — he  nod- 
ded towards  the  college  at  which  the  Dons  were  sever- 
ally arriving  —  "it  is  just  possible  they  would  do  the 
same." 

"He  do  look  ill  and  worn-out,  it  is  true!"  said  a 
woman. 

Sue's  face  grew  more  emotional ;  but  though  she  stood 
close  to  Jude  she  was  screened. 

"  I  may  do  some  good  before  I  am  dead — be  a  sort  of 
success  as  a  frightful  example  of  what  not  to  do.  and  so 
illustrate  a  moral  story,"  continued  Jude,  beginning  to 
grow  bitter,  though  he  had  opened  serenely  enough.  "  I 
was,  perhaps,  after  all,  a  paltry  victim  to  the  spirit  of 
mental  and  social  restlessness  that  makes  so  many  un- 
happy in  these  days." 

"  Don't  tell  them  that !"  whispered  Sue,  with  tears,  at 
perceiving  Jude's  state  of   mind.      "  You   weren't   that. 


388  JUDE  THE   OBSCURE 

You  Struggled  nobly  to  acquire  knowledge,  and  only  the 
meanest  souls  in  the  world  would  blame  you." 
Judc  shifted  the  child  into  a  more  easy  position  on  his 
^  arm,  and  concluded  :  "  And  what  I  appear,  a  sick  and 
poor  man,  is  not  the  worst  of  me.  I  am  in  a  chaos  of 
principles — groping  in  the  dark — acting  by  instinct  and 
not  after  example.  Eight  or  nine  years  ago,  when  I  came 
here  first,  I  had  a  neat  stock  of  fixed  opinions,  but  they 
dropped  away  one  by  one  ;  and  the  further  I  get  the  less 
sure  I  am.  I  doubt  if  I  have  anything  more  for  my  pres- 
ent rule  of  life  than  following  inclinations  which  do  me 
and  nobody  else  any  harm,  and  actually  give  pleasure  to 
those  I  love  best.  There,  gentlemen,  since  you  wanted 
to  know  how  I  was  getting  on,  I  have  told  you.  Much 
good  may  it  do  you  !  I  cannot  explain  further  here.  I 
perceive  there  is  something  wrong  somewhere  in  our  so- 
cial formulas  :  what  it  is  can  only_Dejli-srovered  by  men 
or  women  with  greater  insight  than  mine — if,  indeed, 
they  ever  discover  it — at  least,  in  our  time.  '  For  who 
knoweth  what  is  good  for  man  in  this  life  } — and  who 
can  tell  a  man  what  shall  be  after  him  under  the  sun  ?' " 
"  Hear,  hear  !"  said  the  populace. 

"  Well  preached  !"  said  Tinker  Taylor.  And  privately 
to  his  neighbors:  "  Why,  one  of  them  jobbing  pa'sons 
swarming  about  here,  that  takes  the  services  when  our 
head  Reverends  want  a  holiday,  wouldn't  ha'  discoursed 
such  doctrine  for  less  than  a  guinea  down.  Hey  .'  I'll 
take  my  oath  not  one  o'  'em  would  !  And  then  he  must 
have  had  it  wrote  down  for  'n.  And  this  only  a  work- 
_^  ing-man  !  " 

I  As  a  sort  of  objective  commentary  on  Jude's  remarks 

j  there  drove  up  at  this  moment  with  a  belated  Doctor, 
1  robed  and  panting,  a  cab  whose  horse  failed  to  stop  at 
I  the  exact  point  required  for  setting  down  the  hirer,  who 
\  jumped  out  and  entered  the  door.  The  driver,  alighting, 
\     began  to  kick  the  animal  in  the  belly. 

"  If  that  can  be  done,"  said  Jude, "  at  college  gates  in 


AT   CHRISTMINSTER  AGAIN  389 

the  most  religious  and  educational  city  in  the  world,  what 
shall  we  say  as  to  how  far  we've  got  ?" 

"  Order  !"  said  one  of  the  policemen,  who  had  been  en- 
gaged with  a  comrade  in  opening  the  large  doors  oppo- 
site the  college.  "  Keep  yer  tongue  quiet,  my  man,  while 
the  procession  passes."  The  rain  came  on  more  heavily, 
and  all  who  had  umbrellas  opened  them.  Jude  was  not 
one  of  these,  and  Sue  only  possessed  a  small  one,  half 
sunshade.  She  had  grown  pale,  though  Jude  did  not 
notice  it  then. 

"  Let  us  go  on,  dear,"  she  whispered,  endeavoring  to 
shelter  him.  "We  haven't  any  lodgings  yet,  remember, 
and  all  our  things  are  at  the  station  ;  and  you  are  by  no 
means  well  yet.     I  am  afraid  this  wet  will  hurt  you." 

"They  are  coming  now.  Just  a  moment,  and  I'll  go," 
said  he. 

A  peal  of  six  bells  struck  out,  human  faces  began  to 
crowd  the  windows  around,  and  the  procession  of  Heads 
of  Houses  and  new  Doctors  emerged,  their  red-and-black 
gowned  forms  passing  across  the  field  of  Jude's  vision 
like  inaccessible  planets  across  an  object-glass. 

As  they  went  their  names  were  called  by  knowing  in- 
formants, and  when  they  reached  the  old  round  theatre 
of  Wren  a  cheer  rose  high. 

"  Let's  go  that  way !"  cried  Jude  ;  and  though  it  now 
rained  steadily  he  seemed  not  to  know  it,  and  took  them 
round  to  the  Theatre.  Here  they  stood  upon  the  straw 
that  was  laid  to  drown  the  discordant  noise  of  wheels, 
where  the  quaint  and  frost-eaten  stone  busts  encircling 
the  building  looked  with  pallid  grimness  on  the  proceed- 
ings, and  in  particular  at  the  bedraggled  Jude,  Sue,  and 
their  children,  as  at  ludicrous  persons  who  had  no  busi- 
ness there. 

"  I  wish  I  could  get  in,"  he  said  to  her,  fervidly.  "  Lis- 
ten— I  may  catch  a  few  words  of  the  Latin  speech  by 
staying  here;  the  windows  are  open." 

However,  beyond  the  peals  of  the  organ  and  the  shouts 


39° 


JUDF,  THE  OBSCURE 


and  hurrahs  between  each  piece  of  oratory,  Jude's  stand- 
ing in  the  wet  did  not  bring  much  Latin  to  his  intelli- 
gence more  than,  now  and  then,  a  sonorous  word  in  inn 
or  ibus. 

"Well,  I'm  an  oul^sider  to  the  end  of  my  days,"  he 
sighed,  after  a  while.  "  Now  I'll  go,  my  patient  Sue. 
How  good  of  you  to  wait  in  the  rain  all  this  time — to 
gratify  my  infatuation !  I'll  never  care  any  more  about 
the  infernal  cursed  place;  upon  my  soul  I' won't!  But 
what  made  you  tremble  so  when  we  were  at  the  barrier.-* 
And  how  pale  you  are.  Sue  !" 

"  I  saw  Richard  among  the  people  on  the  other  side." 

"Ah— did  you?" 

"  He  is  evidently  come  up  to  Jerusalem  to  see  the  fes- 
tival like  the  rest  of  us,  and  on  that  account  is  probably 
living  not  so  very  far  away.  He  had  the  same  hankering 
for  the  University  that  you  had,  in  a  milder  form.  I  don't 
think  he  saw  me,  though  he  must  have  heard  you  speak- 
ing to  the  crowd.     But  he  seemed  not  to  notice." 

"  Well,  suppose  he  did.  Your  mind  is  free  from  wor- 
ries about  him  now,  my  Sue?" 

"  Yes,  I  suppose  so.  But  I  am  weak.  Although  I  know- 
it  is  all  right  with  our  plans,  I  felt  a  curious  dread  of 
him  ;  an  awe,  or  terror,  of  conventions  I  don't  believe  in. 
It  comes  over  me  at  times  like  a  sort  of  creeping  paraly- 
sis, and  makes  me  so  sad  !" 

"  You  are  getting  tired.  Sue.  Oh— I  forgot,  darling  ! 
Yes,  we'll  go  on  at  once." 

They  started  in  quest  of  the  lodging,  and  at  last  found 
something  that  seemed  to  promise  well,  in  Mildew  Lane 
— a  spot  which  to  Jude  was  irresistible — though  to  Sue 
it  was  not  so  fascinating — a  narrow  lane  close  to  the  back 
of  a  college,  but  having  no  communication  with  it.  The 
little  houses  were  darkened  to  gloom  by  the  high  colle- 
giate buildings,  within  which  life  was  so  far  removed  from 
that  of  the  people  in  the  lane  as  if  it  had  been  on  oppo- 
site sides  of  the  globe;  yet   only  a  thickness  of  wall  di- 


AT   CHRISTMINSTER  AGAIN  39I 

vided  them.  Two  or  three  of  the  houses  had  notices  of 
rooms  to  let,  and  the  new-comers  knocked  at  the  door  of 
one,  which  a  woman  opened. 

"Ah — listen  !"  said  Jude,  suddenly,  instead  of  address- 
ing her. 

"What?" 

"  Why,  the  bells.  What  church  can  that  be  ?  The  tones 
are  familiar." 

Another  peal  of  bells  had  begun  to  sound  out  at  some 
distance  off. 

"  I  don't  know  !"  said  the  landlady,  tartly.  "  Did  you 
knock  to  ask  that  ?" 

"  No  ;  for  lodgings,"  said  Jude,  coming  to  himself. 

The  householder  scrutinized  Sue  a  moment.  "We 
haven't  any  to  let,"  said  she,  shutting  the  door. 

Jude  looked  discomfited,  and  the  boy  distressed.  "  Now, 
Jude."  said  Sue,  "let  me  try.  You  don't  know  the 
way." 

They  found  a  second  place  hard  by;  but  here  the  occu- 
pier, observing  not  only  Sue,  but  the  boy  and  the  small 
children,  said,  civilly,  "  I  am  sorry  to  say  we  don't  let 
where  there  are  children,"  and  also  closed  the  door.  f. 

The  small  child  squared  his  mouth  and  cried  silently,  0^ 

with  an  instinct  that  trouble  loomed.      The  boy  sighed.         j      J' 
"I  don't  like  Christminster  !"  he  said.     "Are  the  great,''"  ,  ^  ,^ 


old  houses  jails  .•>" 

"No;    colleges,"   said    Jude;    "which    perhaps   you'll       W^ 
study  in  some  day." 

"  I'd  rather  not!"  the  boy  rejoined. 

"  Now  we'll  try  again,"  said  Sue.  "I'll  pull  my  cloak 
more  round  me.  .  .  .  Leaving  Kennetbridge  for  this  place 
is  like  coming  from  Caiaphas  to  Pilate!  .  .  .  IIow  do  I 
look  now,  dear?" 

"  Nobody  would  notice  it  now,"  said  Jude. 

There  was  one  other  house,  and  they  tried  a  third  time. 
The  woman  here  was  more  amiable  ;  but  she  had  little 
room  to  spare,  and  could  only  agree  to  take  in  Sue  and 


'€/- 


392  JUDE  THE   OBSCURE 

the  children,  if  her  husband  could  go  elsewhere.  This 
arrangement  they  perforce  adopted,  in  the  stress  from 
delaying  their  search  till  so  late.  They  came  to  terms 
with  her,  though  her  price  was  rather  high  for  their  pock- 
ets. But  they  could  not  afiford  to  be  critical,  till  Jude 
had  time  to  get  a  more  permanent  abode  ;  and  in  this 
house  Sue  took  possession  of  a  back  room  on  the  second 
floor,  with  an  inner  closet-room  for  the  children.  Jude 
stayed  and  had  a  cup  of  tea,  and  was  pleased  to  find  that 
the  window  commanded  the  back  of  one  of  the  colleges. 
Kissing  all  four,  he  went  to  get  a  few  necessaries  and 
look  for  lodgings  for  himself. 

When  he  was  gone  the  landlady  came  up  to  talk  a  little 
with  Sue,  and  gather  something  of  the  circumstances  of 
the  family  she  had  taken  in.  Sue  had  not  the  art  of 
prevarication,  and,  after  admitting  several  facts  as  to  their 
late  difficulties  and  wanderings,  she  was  startled  by  the 
landlady  saying,  suddenly: 

"  Are  you  really  a  married  woman  ?" 

Sue  hesitated  ;  and  then  impulsively  told  the  woman 
that  her  husband  and  herself  had  each  been  unhappy  in 
their  first  marriages,  after  which,  terrified  at  the  thought 
of  a  second  irrevocable  union,  and  lest  the  condition  of 
the  contract  should  kill  their  love,  yet  wishing  to  be  to- 
gether, they  had  literally  not  found  the  courage  to  repeat 
it,  though  they  had  attempted  it  two  or  three  times. 
Therefore,  though  in  her  own  sense  of  the  words  she 
was  a  married  woman,  in  the  landlady's  sense  she  was 
not. 

The  housewife  looked  embarrassed,  and  went  down- 
stairs. Sue  sat  by  the  window  in  a  reverie,  watching  the 
rain.  Her  quiet  was  broken  by  the  noise  of  some  one  en- 
tering the  house,  and  then  the  voices  of  a  man  and  woman 
in  conversation  in  the  passage  below.  The  landlady's 
husband  had  arrived,  and  she  was  explaining  to  him  the 
incoming  of  the  lodgers  during  his  absence. 

His  voice  rose  in  sudden  anger.    "Now  who  wants  such 


AT   CHRISTMINSTER   AGAIN  393 

a  woman  here?  and  perhaps  a  confinement !  ,  .  .  Besides, 
didn't  I  say  I  wouldn't  have  children  ?  The  hall  and  stairs 
fresh  painted,  to  be  kicked  about  by  them!  You  must 
have  known  all  was  not  straight  with  'em— coming  like 
that.     Taking  in  a  family  when  I  said  a  single  man." 

The  wife  expostulated,  but,  as  it  seemed,  the  husband 
insisted  on  his  point;  for  presently  a  tap  came  to  Sue's 
door,  and  the  woman  appeared. 

"  I  am  sorry  to  tell  you,  ma'am,"  she  said,  "  that  I  can't 
let  you  have  the  room  for  the  week,  after  all.  My  hus- 
band objects;  and  therefore  I  must  ask  you  to  go.  I 
don't  mind  your  staying  over  to-night,  as  it  is  getting  late 
in  the  afternoon  ;  but  I  shall  be  glad  if  you  can  leave  early 
in  the  morning." 

Though  she  knew  that  she  was  entitled  to  the  lodging 
for  a  week,  Sue  did  not  wish  to  create  a  disturbance  be- 
tween the  wife  and  husband,  and  she  said  she  would  leave 
as  requested.  When  the  landlady  had  gone  Sue  looked 
out  of  the  window  again.  Finding  that  the  rain  had 
ceased  she  proposed  to  the  boy  that,  after  putting  the  lit- 
tle ones  to  bed,  they  should  go  out  and  search  about  for 
another  place,  and  bespeak  it  for  the  morrow,  so  as  not  to 
be  so  hard  driven  then  as  they  had  been  that  day. 

Therefore,  instead  of  unpacking  her  boxes,  which  had 
just  been  sent  on  from  the  station  by  Jude,  they  sallied 
out  into  the  damp,  though  not  unpleasant,  streets,  Sue  re- 
solving not  to  disturb  her  husband  with  the  news  of  her 
notice  to  quit  while  he  was  perhaps  worried  in  obtaining 
a  lodging  for  himself.  In  the  company  of  the  boy  she 
wandered  into  this  street  and  into  that;  but  though  she 
tried  a  dozen  different  houses  she  fared  far  worse  alone 
than  she  had  fared  in  Jude's  company,  and  could  get  no- 
body to  promise  her  a  room  for  the  following  day.  Every 
householder  looked  askance  at  such  a  woman  and  child 
inquiring  for  accommodation  in  the  gloom. 

"  I  ought  not  to  be  born,  ought  I .'"  said  the  boy,  with 
misgiving. 


394  JUDE  THE  OBSCURE 

Thoroughly  tired  at  last  Sue  returned  to  the  place 
where  she  was  not  welcome,  but  where  at  least  she  had 
temporary  shelter.  In  her  absence  Jude  had  left  his  ad- 
dress ;  but  knowing  how  weak  he  still  was  she  adhered  to 
her  determination  not  to  disturb  him  till  the  next  day. 


i-,' 


II 

Sue  sat  looking  at  the  bare  floor  of  the  room,  the 
house  being  little  more  than  an  old  intramural  cottage, 
and  then  she  regarded  the  scene  outside  the  uncurtained 
window.  At  some  distance  opposite,  the  outer  w^alls  of 
Sarcophagus  College  —  silent,  black,  and  windowless — 
threw  their  four  centuries  of  gloom,  bigotry,  and  decay 
into  the  little  room  she  occupied,  shutting  out  the  moon- 
light by  night  and  the  sun  by  day.  The  outlines  of  Ru- 
bric College  also  were  discernible  bevond  the  other,  and 
the  tower  of  a  third  farther  off  still.  She  thought  of  the 
strange  operation  of  a  simple-minded  man's  ruling  pas- 
sion, that  it  should  have  led  Jude,  who  loved  her  and  the 
children  so  tenderly,  to  place  them  here  in  this  depress- 
ing purlieu,  because  he  was  still  haunted  by  his  dream. 
Even  now  he  did  not  distinctly  hear  the  freezing  nega- 
tive that  those  scholared  walls  had  echoed  to  his  de- 
sire. 

The  failure  to  find  another  lodging,  and  the  lack  of 
room  in  this  house  for  his  father,  had  made  a  deep  im- 
pression on  the  boy — a  brooding,  undemonstrative  horror 
seemed  to  have  seized  him.  The  silence  was  broken  by 
his  saying,  "  Mother,  la/ia/  shall  we  do  to-morrow.^" 

"  I  don't  know,"  said  Sue,  despondently.  "  I  am  afraid 
this  will  trouble  your  father." 

"  I  wish  father  was  quite  well,  and  there  had  been  room 
for  him  !  Then  it  wouldn't  matter  so  much  I  Poor  fa- 
ther !" 

"  It  wouldn't !" 

"  Can  I  do  anything  .'" 


396  JUDE  THE   OBSCURE 

"  No  !     All  is  trouble,  adversity,  and  suffering  I" 

"  Father  went  awa}'-  to  give  us  children  room,  didn't 
he  ?" 

"  Partly." 

"  It  would  be  better  to  be  out  o'  the  world  than  in  it, 
wouldn't  it?" 

"  It  would  almost,  dear." 

"  'Tis  because  of  us  children,  too,  isn't  it,  that  you  can't 
get  a  good  lodging  ?" 

"  Well,  people  do  object  to  children  sometimes." 

"Then  if  children  make  so  much  trouble,  why  do  peo- 
ple have  'em  ?" 

"  Oh,  because  it  is  a  law  of  nature." 

"  But  we  don't  ask  to  be  born  ?" 

"  No,  indeed." 

"  And  what  makes  it  worse  with  me  isthdt  you  are  not 
my  real  mother,  and  you  needn't  have  had  me  unless  you 
liked.  I  oughtn't  to  have  come  to  'ee — that's  the  real 
truth !  I  troubled  'em  in  Australia,  and  I  trouble  folk 
here.     I  wish  I  hadn't  been  born  !" 

"  You  couldn't  help  it,  my  dear." 

"I  think  that  whenever  children  be  born  that  are  not 
wanted  they  should  be  killed  directly,  before  their  souls 
come  to  'cm,  and  not  allowed  to  grow  big  and  walk 
about !" 

Sue  did  not  reply.  She  was  doubtfully  pondering  how 
to  treat  this  too  reflective  child. 

She  at  last  concluded  that,  so  far  as  circumstances  per- 
mitted, she  would  be  honest  and  candid  with  one  who 
entered  into  her  difficulties  like  an  aged  friend. 

"  There  is  going  to  be  another  in  our  family  soon,"  she 
hesitatingly  remarked. 

"  How  ?" 

"  There  is  going  to  be  another  baby." 

"  What !"  The  boy  jumped  up  wildly.  "  O  God,  moth- 
er, you've  never  a-sent  for  another  ;  and  such  trouble  with 
what  you've  got !" 


f  AT   CHRISTMINSTER  AGAIN  397 

^  "Yes,  I  have,  I  am  sorry  to  say,"  murmured  Sue,  her 

eyes  ghstening  with  suspended  tears. 

The  boy  burst  out  weeping.  "  Oh,  you  don't  care,  you 
don't  care  !"  he  cried,  in  bitter  reproach.  "  How  eva- 
could  you,  mother,  be  so  wicked  and  cruel  as  this,  when 
you  needn't  have  done  it  till  we  was  better  off,  and  father 
well  !  To  bring  us  all  into  more  trouble!  No  room  for 
us,  and  father  a-forced  to  go  away,  and  we  turned  out  to- 
morrow ;  and  yet  you  be  going  to  have  another  of  us 
soon  !  .  .  .  'Tis  done  o'  purpose — 'tis — 'tis  !"  He  walked 
up  and  down  sobbing. 

"  Y-you  must  forgive  me,  little  Jude  !"  she  pleaded,  her 
bosom  heaving  now  as  much  as  the  boy's.  "  I  can't  ex- 
plain ;  I  will  when  you  are  older.  It  does  seem — as  if  I 
had  done  it  on  purpose,  now  we  are  in  these  difficulties. 
I  can't  explain,  dear.  But  it— it  is  not  quite  on  purpose ; 
I  can't  help  it." 

"Yes  it  is — it  must  be!  For  nobody  would  interfere 
with  us,  like  that,  unless  you  agreed  !  I  won't  forgive 
you,  ever,  ever !  I'll  never  believe  you  care  for  me,  or 
father,  or  any  of  us  any  more  !" 

He  got  up,  and  went  away  into  the  closet  adjoining  her 
room,  in  which  a  bed  had  been  spread  on  the  floor.  There 
she  heard  him  say,  "  If  we  children  was  gone  there'd  be 
no  trouble  at  all !" 

"  Don't  think  that,  dear,"  she  cried,  rather  peremptorily, 
"  but  go  to  sleep  !" 

The  following  morning  she  awoke  at  a  little  past  six, 
and  decided  to  get  up  and  run  across  before  breakfast  to 
the  inn  which  Jude  had  informed  her  to  be  his  quarters, 
to  tell  him  what  had  happened  before  he  went  out.  She 
arose  softly,  to  avoid  disturbing  the  children,  who,  as  she 
knew,  must  be  fatigued  by  their  exertions  of  yesterday. 

She  found  Jude  at  breakfast  in  the  obscure  tavern  he 
had  chosen  as  a  counterpoise  to  the  expense  of  her  lodg- 
ing, and  she  explained  to  him  her  homelessness.  He  had 
been  so  anxious  about  her  all  night,  he  said.     Somehow, 


59S  JUDE  THE  OBSCURE 

now  it  was  morning,  the  request  to  leave  the  lodgings  did 
not  seem  such  a  depressing  incident  as  it  had  seemed  the 
night  before,  nor  did  even  her  failure  to  find  another  place 
aflfect  her  so  deeply  as  at  first.  Jude  agreed  with  her  that 
it  would  not  be  worth  while  to  insist  upon  her  right  to 
stay  a  week,  but  to  take  immediate  steps  for  removal. 

"  You  must  all  come  to  this  inn  for  a  day  or  two,"  he 
said.  "  It  is  a  rough  place,  and  it  will  not  be  so  nice  for 
the  children,  but  we  shall  have  more  time  to  look  round. 
There  are  plenty  of  lodgings  in  the  suburbs — in  my  old 
quarter  of  Beersheba.  Have  breakfast  with  me  now  you 
are  here,  my  bird.  You  are  sure  you  are  well  ?  There 
will  be  plenty  of  time  to  get  back  and  prepare  the  chil- 
dren's meal  before  they  wake.     In  fact,  I'll  go  with  you." 

She  joined  Jude  in  a  hasty  meal,  and  in  a  quarter  of  an 
hour  they  started  together,  resolving  to  clear  out  from 
Sue's  too  respectable  lodging  immediately.  On  reaching 
the  place  and  going  up-stairs  she  found  that  all  was  quiet 
in  the  children's  room,  and  called  to  the  landlady  in  tim- 
orous tones  to  please  bring  up  the  teakettle  and  some- 
thing for  their  breakfast.  This  was  perfunctorily  done, 
and,  producing  a  couple  of  eggs  which  she  had  brought 
with  her,  she  put  them  into  the  boiling  kettle,  and  sum- 
moned Jude  to  watch  them  for  the  youngsters  while  she 
went  to  call  them,  it  being  now  about  half-past  eight 
o'clock. 

Jude  stood  bending  over  the  kettle,  with  his  watch  in 
his  hand,  timing  the  eggs,  so  that  his  back  was  turned  to 
the  little  inner  chamber  where  the  children  lay.  A  shriek 
from  Sue  suddenly  caused  him  to  start  round.  He  saw 
that  the  door  of  the  room,  or  rather  closet — which  had 
seemed  to  go  heavily  upon  its  hinges  as  she  pushed  it 
back — was  open,  and  that  Sue  had  sunk  to  the  floor  just 
within  it.  Hastening  forward  to  pick  her  up,  he  turned 
his  eyes  to  the  little  bed  spread  on  the  boards  ;  no  children 
were  there.  He  looked  in  bewilderment  round  the  room. 
At  the  back  of  the  door  were  fixed  two  hooks  for  haneincr 


AT   CHRISTMINSTER  AGAIN  399 

garments,  and  from  these  the  forms  of  the  two  youngest 
children  were  suspended  by  a  piece  of  box-cord  round 
each  of  their  necks,  while  from  a  nail  a  few  yards  off 
the  body  of  little  Jude  was  hanging  in  a  similar  manner. 
An  overturned  chair  was  near  the  elder  boy,  and  his 
glazed  eyes  were  staring  into  the  room ;  but  those  of  the 
girl  and  the  baby  boy  were  closed. 

Half  paralyzed  by  the  grotesque  and  hideous  horror  of 
the  scene,  he  let  Sue  lie,  cut  the  cords  with  his  pocket- 
knife,  and  threw  the  three  children  on  the  bed  ;  but  the 
feel  of  their  bodies  in  the  momentary  handling  seemed  to 
say  that  they  were  dead.  He  caught  up  Sue.  who  was  in 
fainting-fits,  and  put  her  on  the  bed  in  the  other  room,  after 
which  he  breathlessly  summoned  the  landlady  and  ran 
out  for  a  doctor. 

When  he  got  back  Sue  had  come  to  herself,  and  the  two 
helpless  women,  bending  over  the  children  in  wild  efforts 
to  restore  them,  and  the  triplet  of  little  corpses,  formed  a 
scene  which  overthrew  his  self-command.  The  nearest 
surgeon  came  in,  but,  as  Jude  had  inferred,  his  presence 
was  superfluous.  The  children  were  past  saving;  for 
though  their  bodies  were  still  barely  cold,  it  was  conject- 
ured that  they  had  been  hanging  more  than  an  hour. 
The  probability  held  by  the  parents  later  on,  when  they 
were  able  to  reason  on  the  case,  was  that  the  elder  boy, 
on  waking,  looked  into  the  outer  room  for  Sue,  and,  find- 
ing her  absent,  was  thrown  into  a  fit  of  aggravated  de- 
spondency that  the  events  and  information  of  the  ev^en- 
ing  before  had  induced  in  his  morbid  temperament. 
Moreover,  a  piece  of  paper  was  found  upon  the  floor,  on 
which  was  written  in  the  boy's  hand,  witli  the  bit  of  lead- 
pencil  that  he  carried : 

"  Done  because  wc  are  too  inmny." 

At  sight  of  this  Sue's  nerves  utterly  gave  way,  an  awful 
conviction  that  her  discourse  with  the  boy  had  been  the 


400  JUDE   THE   OBSCURE 

main  cause  of  the  tragedy,  throwing  her  into  a  convul- 
sive agony  which  knew  no  abatement.  They  carried 
her  away  against  her  wisli  to  a  room  on  the  lower  floor, 
and  there  she  lay,  her  slight  figure  shaken  with  her  gasps, 
and  her  eyes  staring  at  the  ceiling,  the  woman  of  the 
house  vainly  trying  to  soothe  her. 

They  could  hear  from  this  chamber  the  people  moving 
about  above,  and  she  implored  to  be  allowed  to  go  back, 
and  was  only  kept  from  doing  so  by  the  assurance  that,  if 
there  were  any  hope,  her  presence  might  do  harm,  and 
the  reminder  that  it  was  necessary  to  take  care  of  herself 
lest  she  should  endanger  a  coming  life.  Her  inquiries' 
were  incessant,  and  at  last  Jude  came  down  and  told  her 
there  was  no  hope.  As  soon  as  she  could  speak  she  in- 
formed him  what  she  had  said  to  the  boy,  and  how  she 
thought  herself  the  cause  of  this. 

"  No,"  said  Jude.  "  It  was  in  his  nature  to  do  it.  The 
doctor  says  there  are  such  boys  springing  up  amongst  us 
— boys  of  a  sort  unknown  in  the  last  generation — the  out- 
come of  new  vievysof  life.  They  seem  to  see  all  its  ter- 
rors before  they  are  old  enough  to  have  staying  power  to 
^  *^re¥ist  thejn.  He  says  it  is  the  beginning-of  the  coming 
*-  \  uliiversal  wish  not  to  live.  He's  an  advanced  man,  the 
doctor;  but  he  can  give  no  consolation  to — •" 

Jude  had  kept  back  his  own  grief  on  account  of  her, 
but  he  now  broke  down  ;  and  this  stimulated  Sue  to  ef- 
forts of  sympathy  which  in  some  degree  distracted  her 
from  her  poignant  self-reproach.  When  everybody  was 
gone,  she  was  allowed  to  see  the  children. 

The  boy's  face  expressed  the  whole  tale  of  their  situa- 
tion. On  that  little  shape  had  converged  all  the  inau- 
spiciousness  and  shadow  which  had  darkened  the  first 
union  of  Jude,  and  all  the  accidents,  mistakcMears,  errors 
oi-tliejast,.  He  was  their  nodal  point,  their  focus,  their 
expression  in  a  single  term.  For  the  rashness  of  those 
parents  he  had  groaned,  for  their  ill-assortment  he  had 
quaked,  and  for  the  misfortunes  of  these  he  had  died. 


"S. 


AT   CHRISTMINSTER  AGAIN  40I 

When  the  house  was  silent,  and  they  could  do  nothing 
but  await  the  coroner's  inquest,  a  subdued,  large,  low- 
voice  spread  into  the  air  of  the  room  from  behind  the 
heavy  walls  at  the  back. 

"  What  is  it  ?"  said  Sue,  her  spasmodic  breathing  sus- 
pended. 

"  The  organ  of  the  College  chapel.  The  organist  prac- 
tising, I  suppose.  It's  the  anthem  from  the  Seventy-third 
Psalm  :  'Truly  God  is  loving  unto  Israel.'" 

She  sobbed  again.  "  Oh,  my  babies  !  They  had  done 
no  harm  !  Why  should  they  have  been  taken  away,  and 
not  I !" 

There  was  another  stillness  —  broken  at  last  by  two 
persons  in  conversation  somewhere  without. 

"They  are  talking  about  us,  no  doubt!"  moaned  Sue. 
"  '  We  are  made  a  spectacle  unto  the  world,  and  to  angels, 
and  to  men  !'  " 

Jude  listened.  "No;  they  are  not  talking  of  us,"  he 
said.  "  They  are  two  clergjmien  of  different  views,  argu- 
ing about  the  eastward  position." 

Then  another  silence,  till  she  was  seized  with  another 
uncontrollable  fit  of  grief.  "  There  is  something  external 
to  us  which  says, '  You  sha'n't !'  First  it  said, '  You  sha"n't 
learn  !'  Then  it  said,  '  You  sha'n't  labor !'  Now  it  says, 
'  You  sha'n't  love  !'" 

He  tried  to  soothe  her  by  saying,  "  That's  bitter  of  you, 
darling." 

"  But  it's  true  !" 

Thus  they  waited,  and  she  went  back  again  to  her 
room.  The  baby's  frock,  shoes,  and  socks,  which  had 
been  lying  on  a  chair  at  the  time  of  his  death,  she  would 
not  now  have  removed,  though  Jude  would  fain  have  got 
them  out  of  her  sight.  But  whenever  he  touched  them 
she  implored  him  to  let  them  lie,  and  burst  out  almost 
savagely  at  the  woman  of  the  house  when  she  also  at- 
tempted to  put  them  away. 

Jude  dreaded  her  dull,  apathetic  silences  almost  more 
26 


402  JUDE  THE   OBSCURE 

than  her  paroxysms.  "  Why  don't  you  speak  to  me, 
Jude?"  she  said,  after  one  of  these.  "Don't  turn  away 
from  me  !  I  can't  bear  the  loneliness  of  being  out  of  your 
looks  !" 

"There,  dear;  here  I  am,"  he  said,  putting  his  face 
close  to  hers. 

"Yes.  .  .  .  Oh,  my  comrade,  our  perfect  union — our 
two-in-oneness — is  now  stained  with  blood  !" 

"  Shadowed  by  death — that's  all." 

"Ah;  but  it  was  I  who  incited  him,  really,  though  I 
didn't  know  I  was  doing  it.  I  talked  to  the  child  as  one 
should  only  talk  to  people  of  mature  age.  I  said  the 
world  was  against  us,  that  it  was  better  to  be  out  of  life 
than  in  it  at  this  price,  and  he  took  it  literally.  And  I 
told  him  I  was  going  to  have  another  child.  It  upset 
him.     Oh,  how  bitterly  he  upbraided  me  !" 

"  Why  did  you  do  it,  Sue  ?" 

"U  can't  tell.  It  was  that  I  wanted  to  be  truthful.  I 
couldn't  bear  deceiving  him  as  to  the  facts  of  life.  And 
^yet  I  wasn't  truthful,  for  with  a  false  delicacy  I  told  him 
too  obscurely.  Why  was  I  half  wiser  than  my  fellow- 
"wOinenr  and  not  entirely  wiser  .^  Why  didn't  I  tell  him 
pleasant  untruths,  instead  of  half  realities?  It  was  my 
want  of  self-control,  so  that  I  could  neither  conceal  things 
nor  reveal  them." 

"Your  plan  might  have  been  a  good  one  for  the  ma- 
jority of  cases,  only  in  our  peculiar  case  it  chanced  to 
work  badly  perhaps.  He  must  have  known  sooner  or 
later." 

"  And  I  was  just  making  my  baby  darling  a  new  frock, 
and  now  I  shall  never  see  him  in  it,  and  never  talk  to 
him  any  more !  .  .  .  My  eyes  are  so  swollen  that  I  can 
scarcely  see  ;  and  yet  little  more  than  a  year  ago  I  called 
myself  happy  I  We  went  about  loving  each  other  too 
much — indulging  ourselves  to  utter  selfishness  with  each 
other!  We  said  —  do  you  remember?  —  that  we  would 
make  a  virtue  of  joy.     I  said  it  was  Nature's  intention, 


AT   CHRISTMINSTER  AGAIN  403 

Nature's  law  and  raison  d't"/re,tha.t  we  should  be  joyful  in 
what  instincts  she  afforded  us  — instincts  which  civiliza- 
tion had  taken  upon  itself  to  thwart.  What  dreadful 
things  I  said  !  And  now  Fate  has  given  us  this  stab  in 
the  back  for  being  such  fools  as  to  take  Nature  at  her 
word  !" 

She  sank  into  a  quiet  contemplation,  till  she  said,  "  It 
is  best,  perhaps,  that  they  should  be  gone.  Yes— I  see  it 
is !  Better  that  they  should  be  plucked  fresh,  than  stay 
to  wither  away  miserably  !" 

"  Yes,"  replied  Jude.  "  Some  say  that  the  elders  should 
rejoice  when  their  children  die  in  infancy." 

"  But  they  don't  know  !  .  .  .  Oh,  my  babies,  my  babies, 
could  you  be  alive  now !  You  may  say  the  boy  wished 
to  be  out  of  life,  or  he  wouldn't  have  done  it.  It  was  not 
unreasonable  for  him  to  die  :  it  was  part  of  his  incurably 
sad  nature,  poor  little  fellow  !  But  then  the  others — my 
own  children  and  yours  !" 

Again  Sue  looked  at  the  hanging  little  frock,  and  at 
the  socks  and  shoes;  and  her  figure  quivered  like  a 
string.  "I  am  a  pitiable  creature,"  she  said,  "good  nei- 
ther for  earth  nor  heaven  any  more !  I  am  driven  out 
of  my  mind  by  things!  What  ought  to  be  done?"  She 
stared  at  Jude,  and  tightly  held  his  hand. 

"  Nothing  can  be  done,"  he  replied.  "  Things  are  as 
they  afcTand  will  be  brought  to  their  destined  issue." 

SKc'  pausea.  "Yes!  Who  said  thar.'''*~'ShG  "askec, 
heavily. 

"  It  com.es  in  the  chorus  of  the  Agavionnoti.  It  has 
been  in  my  mind  continually  since  this  happened." 

"  My  poor  Jude — how  you've  missed  everything! — you 
more  than  I,  for  I  did  get  you !  To  think  you  should 
know  that  by  your  unassisted  reading,  and  yet  be  in  pov- 
erty and  despair!" 

After  such  momentary  diversions  her  grief  would  re- 
turn in  a  wave. 

The  jury  duly  came  and  viewed  the  bodies,  the  inquest- 


404  JUDE  THE   OBSCURE 

was  held  ;  and  next  arrived  the  melancholy  morning  of 
the  funeral.  Accounts  in  the  newspapers  had  brought  to 
the  spot  curious  idlers,  who  stood  apparently  counting 
the  window-panes  and  the  stones  of  the  walls.  Doubt 
of  the  real  relations  of  the  couple  added  zest  to  their 
curiosity.  Sue  had  declared  that  she  would  follow  the 
two  little  ones  to  the  grave,  but  at  the  last  moment  she 
gave  way,  and  the  coffins  were  quietly  carried  out  of  the 
house  while  she  was  lying  down.  Jude  got  into  the 
vehicle,  and  it  drove  away,  much  to  the  relief  of  the  land- 
lord, who  now  had  only  Sue  and  her  luggage  remaining 
on  his  hands,  which  he  hoped  to  be  also  clear  of  later  on 
in  the  day,  and  so  to  have  freed  his  house  from  the  ex- 
asperating notoriety  it  had  acquired  during  the  week 
through  his  wife's  unlucky  admission  of  these  strangers. 
In  the  afternoon  he  privately  consulted  with  the  owner  of 
the  house,  and  they  agreed  that  if  any  objection  to  it 
arose  from  the  tragedy  which  had  occurred  there  they 
would  try  to  get  its  number  changed. 

When  Jude  had  seen  the  two  little  boxes  —  one  con- 
taining little  Jude,  and  the  other  the  two  smallest — de- 
posited in  the  earth,  he  hastened  back  to  Sue,  who  was 
still  in  her  room,  and  he  therefore  did  not  disturb  her 
just  then.  Feeling  anxious,  however,  he  went  again 
about  four  o'clock.  The  woman  thought  she  was  still 
lying  down,  but  returned  to  him  to  say  that  she  was  not 
in  her  bedroom,  after  all.  Her  hat  and  jacket,  too,  were 
missing;  she  had  gone  out.  Jude  hurried  oflf  to  the 
public-house  where  he  was  sleeping.  She  had  not  been 
there.  Then,  bethinking  himself  of  possibilities,  he  went 
along  the  road  to  the  cemetery,  which  he  entered,  and 
crossed  to  where  the  interments  had  recently  taken  place. 
The  idlers  who  had  followed  to  the  spot  by  reason  of  the 
tragedy  were  all  gone  now.  A  man  with  a  shovel  in  his 
hands  was  attempting  to  earth  in  the  common  grave  of 
the  three  children,  but  his  arm  was  held  back  by  an  ex- 
postulating woman,  who  stood  in  the  half-filled  hole.     It 


AT   CHRISTMINSTER  AGAIN  405 

was  Sue,  whose  colored  clothing,  which  she  had  never 
thought  of  changing  for  the  mourning  he  had  bought, 
suggested  to  the  eye  a  deeper  grief  than  the  conventional 
garb  of  bereavement  could  express. 

"  He's  filling  them  in,  and  he  sha'n't  till  I've  seen  my 
little  ones  again  !"  she  cried,  wildly,  when  she  saw  Jude. 
"  I  want  to  see  them  once  more.  Oh,  Jude — please, 
Jude  —  I  want  to  see  them  I  I  didn't  know  you  would 
let  them  be  taken  away  while  I  was  asleep !  You  said 
perhaps  I  should  see  them  once  more  before  they  were 
screwed  down;  and  then  you  didn't,  but  took  them 
away  !     Oh,  Jude,  you  are  cruel  to  me,  too  !" 

"She's  been  wanting  me  to  dig  out  the  grave  again, 
and  let  her  get  to  the  coffins,"  said  the  man  with  the 
spade.  "  She  ought  to  be  took  home,  by  the  look  o'  her. 
She  is  hardly  responsible,  poor  thing,  seemingly.  Can't 
dig  'em  up  again  now,  ma'am.  Do  ye  go  home  with 
your  husband,  and  take  it  quiet,  and  than'K  God  that 
there'll  be  another  soon  to  swage  yer  grief." 

But  Sue  kept  asking:  "Can't  I  see  them  once  more — 
just  once!  Can't  I .''  Only  just  one  little  minute,  Jude! 
It  would  not  take  long  !  And  I  should  be  so  glad,  Jude  ! 
I  will  be  so  good,  and  not  disobey  you  ever  any  more, 
Jude,  if  you  will  let  me?  I  would  go  home  quietly  after- 
wards, and  not  want  to  see  them  any  more !  Can't  I  ? 
Why  can't  Ir" 

Thus  she  went  on.  Jude  was  thrown  into  such  acute 
sorrow  that  he  almost  felt  he  would  try  to  get  the  man 
to  accede.  But  it  could  do  no  good,  and  might  make 
her  still  worse  ;  and  he  saw  that  it  was  imperative  to  get 
her  home  at  once.  So  he  coaxed  her,  and  whispered  ten- 
derly, and  put  his  arm  round  her  to  support  her;  till  she 
helplessly  gave  in,  and  was  induced  to  leave  the  cemetery. 

He  wished  to  obtain  a  fly  to  take  her  back  in,  but 
economy  being  so  imperative  she  deprecated  his  doing 
so,  and  they  walked  along  slowly,  Jude  in  black  crape, 
she  in  brown-and-red  clothing.     They  were  to  have  gone 


4o6  JUDE  THE  OBSCURE 

to  a  new  lodging  that  afternoon,  but  Jude  saw  that  it  was 
not  practicable,  and  in  course  of  time  they  entered  the 
now  hated  house.  Sue  was  at  once  got  to  bed,  and  the 
doctor  sent  for. 

Jude  waited  all  the  evening  down-stairs.  At  a  very 
late  hour  the  intelligence  was  brought  to  him  that  a 
child  had  been  prematurely  born,  and  that  it,  like  the 
others,  was  a  corpse. 


I' 


III 

Sue  was  convalescent,  though  she  had  hoped  for  death, 
and  Jude  had  again  obtained  work  at  his  old  trade.  They 
were  in  other  lodgings  now,  in  the  direction  of  Beersheba, 
and  not  far  from  the  ceremonial  Church  of  Saint  Silas. 

They  would  sit  silent,  more  bodeful  of  the  direct  an- 
tagonism of  things  than  of  their  insensate  and  stolid  ob- 
structiveness.  Vague  and  quaint  imaginings  had  haunted 
Sue,  in  the  days  when  her  intellect  scintillated  like  a  star, 
that  the  world  resembled  a  stanza  orjuglody  composed  ^,  ,  ij 
in  a   dream;  it   was  wonderfully 'excellent  to~TlTr-half=  H^*^ 

"aroused  intelligence,  but  hopelessly  absurd  at  the  full  t,'-/-!/'''^^ 
waking ;  that  the  First  Cause  worked  automatically  like  y^ 
a  somnambulist,  and  not  reflectively  like  a  sage  ;  that  at 
theTraming  of  tlieTerrestrlal  conditions  there  seemed 
never  to  have  been  contemplated  such  a  development  of 
emotional  perceptiveness  among  the  creatures  subject  to 
those  conditions  as  that  reached  by  thinking  and  edu- 
cated humanity.  But  affliction  makes  opposing  forces 
loom  anthropomorphous;  and  those  ideas  were  now  ex- 
changed for  a  sense  of  Jude  and  herself  fleeing  from  a 
persecutor. 

"We  must  conform  !"  she  said,  mournfully.  "All  the 
ancient  wrath  of  the  Power  above  us  has  been  vented 
upon  us,  His  poor  creatures,  and  we  must  submit.  There 
is  no  choice.  We  must.  It  is  no  use  fighting  against 
God!" 

"  It  is  only  against  man  and  senseless  circumstance," 
said  Jude. 

"True  !"she  murmured.     "  What  have  I  been  thinking 


4o8  JUDE  THE   OBSCURE 

of  I  I  am  getting  as  superstitious  as  a  savage  !  .  .  .  But 
whoever  or  whatever  our  foe  may  be,  I  am  cowed  into 
submission.  I  have  no  more  fighting  strength  left;  no 
more  enterprise.  I  am  beaten,  beaten  !  .  .  . '  We  are  made 
a  spectacle  unto  the  world,  and  to  angels,  and  to  men  !' 
I  am  always  saying  that  now." 

"  I  feel  the  same  !" 

"What  shall  we  do.''  You  are  in  work  now  ;  but  re- 
member, it  may  only  be  because  our  history- and  relations 
are  not  absolutely  known.  .  .  .  Possibly,  if  they  knew  our 
marriage  had  not  been  formalized  they  would  turn  you 
out  of  your  job  as  they  did  at  Aldbrickham  !" 

"  I  hardly  know.  Perhaps  they  would  hardly  do  that. 
However,  I  think  that  we  ought  to  make  it  legal  now — as 
soon  as  you  are  able  to  go  out. 

"  You  think  we  ought .''" 

"  Certainly." 

And  Jude  fell  into  thought.  "  I  have  seemed  to  myself 
lately,"  he  said,  "  to  belong  to  that  vast  band  of  men 
shunned  by  the  virtuous — the  men  called  seducers.  It 
amazes  me  when  I  think  of  it !  I  have  not  been  con- 
scious of  it,  or  of  any  wrong-doing  towards  you,  whom  I 
love  more  than  myself.  Yet  I  am  one  of  those  men  !  I 
wonder  if  any  other  of  them  are  the  same  purblind,  sim- 
ple creatures  as  I .'  .  .  .  Yes,  Sue — that's  what  I  am.  I 
seduced  you.  .  .  ,  You  were  a  distinct  type — a  refined 
creature,  intended  by  Nature  to  be  left  intact.  But  I 
couldn't  leave  you  alone  !" 

"  No,  no,  Jude  !"  she  said,  quickly.  "Don't  reproach 
yourself  with  being  what  you  are  not.  If  anybody  is  to 
blame  it  is  I." 

"  I  supported  you  in  your  resolve  to  leave  Phillotson  ; 
and  without  me  perhaps  you  wouldn't  have  urged  him  to 
let  you  go." 

"  I  should  have,  just  the  same.  As  to  ourselves,  the 
fact  of  our  not  having  entered  into  a  legal  contract  is  the 
saving  feature  in  our  union.     We  have  thereby  avoid- 


AT   CHRISTMINSTER  AGAIN  409 

ed  insulting,  as  it  were,  the  solemnity  of  our  first  mar- 
riages." 

"  Solemnity?"  Jude  looked  at  her  with  some  surprise, 
and  grew  conscious  that  she  was  not  the  Sue  of  their 
earlier  time. 

"Yes,"  she  said,  with  a  little  quiver  in  her  words,  "  I 
have  had  dreadful  fears,  a  dreadful  sense  of  my  own  in- 
solence of  action.  I  have  thought— that  I  am  still  his 
wife !" 

"  Whose  ?" 

"  Richard's." 

"  Good  God,  dearest ! — why?" 

"  Oh  I  can't  explain  !     Only  the  thought  comes  to  me." 

"It  is  your  weakness— a  sick  fancy,  without  reason  or 
meaning  !     Don't  let  it  trouble  you." 

Sue  sighed  uneasily. 

As  a  set-ofif  against  such  discussions  as  these  there  had 
come  an  improvement  in  their  pecuniary  position,  which 
earlier  in  their  experience  would  have  made  them  cheer- 
ful. Jude  had  quite  unexpectedly  found  good  employ- 
ment at  his  old  trade  almost  directly  he  arrived,  the 
summer  weather  suiting  his  fragile  constitution ;  and 
outwardly  his  days  went  on  with  that  monotonous  uni- 
formity which  is  in  itself  so  grateful  after  vicissitude. 
People  seemed  to  have  forgotten  that  he  had  ever  shown 
any  awkward  aberrancies,  and  he  daily  mounted  to  the 
parapets  and  copings  of  colleges  he  could  never  enter, 
and  renewed  the  crumbling  freestones  of  mullioned  win- 
dows he  would  never  look  from,  as  if  he  had  known  no 
wish  to  do  otherwise. 

There  was  this  change  in  him — that  he  did  not  often 
go  to  any  service  at  the  churches  now.  One  thing 
troubled  him  more  than  any  other,  that  Sue  and  himself 
had  mentally  travelled  in  opposite  directions  since  the 
tragedy :  events  which  had  enlarged  his  own  views  of 
iife,  laws,  customs,  and  dogmas,  had  not  operated  in  the 
same  manner  on  Sue's.     She  was  no  longer  the  same  as 


4IO  JUDE  THE  OBSCURE 

in  the  independent  days,  when  her  intellect  played  like 
lambent  lightning  over  conventions  and  formalities  which 
he  had  at  that  time  respected,  though  he  did  not  now. 

On  a  particular  Sunday  evening  he  came  in  rather  late. 
She  was  not  at  home,  but  she  soon  returned,  when  he 
found  her  silent  and  meditative. 

"  What  are  you  thinking  of,  little  woman  ?"  he  asked, 
curiously. 

"  Oh,  I  can't  tell  clearly !  I  have  thought  that  we  have 
been  selfish,  careless,  even  impious,  in  our  courses,  you 
and  I.  Our  life  has  been  a  vain  attempt  at  self-delight. 
But  self-abnegation  is  the  higher  road.  We  should 
mortify  the  flesh— the  terrible  flesh— the  curse  of  Adam  !" 

"  Sue,"  he  murmured,  "what  has  come  over  you.?" 

"We  ought  to  be  continually  sacrificing  ourselves  on 
the  altar  of  duty  !  But  I  have  always  striven  to  do  what 
has  pleased  me.  I  well  deserved  the  scourging  I  have 
got !  I  wish  something  would  take  the  evil  right  out  of 
me, and  all  my  monstrous  errors,  and  all  my  sinful  ways!" 

"Sue — my  own  too  sufTering  dear! — there's  no  evil 
woman  in  you.  Your  natural  instincts  are  perfectly 
healthy;  not  quite  so  impassioned,  perhaps,  as  I  could 
wish,  but  good  and  dear  and  pure.  And,  as  I  have  often 
said,  you  are  absolutely  the  most  ethereal,  least  sensual 
woman  I  ever  knew  to  exist  without  inhuman  sexlessness. 
Why  do  you  talk  in  such  a  changed  way?  We  have 
not  been  selfish,  except  when  no  one  could  profit  by  our 
being  otherwise.  You  used  to  say  that  human  nature 
was  noble  and  long-suffering,  not  vile  and  corrupt,  and 
at  last  I  thought  you  spoke  truly.  And  now  you  seem 
to  take  such  a  much  lower  view  !" 

"  I  want  a  humble  heart  and  a  chastened  mind,  and 
I  have  never  had  them  yet !" 

"You  have  been  fearless,  both  as  a  thinker  and  as  a 
feeler,  and  you  deserved  more  admiration  than  I  gave.  I 
was  too  full  of  narrow  dogmas  at  that  time  to  see  it." 

"  Don't  say  that,  Jude  !     I  wish  my  every  fearless  word 


AT   CHRISTMINSTER  AGAIN  4I I 

and  thought  could  be  rooted  out  of  my  history.  Self- 
renunciation— that's  everything  !  I  cannot  humiliate  my- 
self too  much.  I  should  like  to  prick  myself  all  over  with 
pins,  and  bleed  out  the  badness  that's  in  me  ?" 

"  Hush  !"  he  said,  pressing  her  little  face  against  his 
breast  as  if  she  were  an  infant.  "  It  is  bereavement  that  has 
brought  you  to  this!  Such  remorse  is  not  for  you,  my 
sensitive-plant,  but  for  the  wicked  ones  of  the' earth — who 
never  feel  it !" 

"  I  ought  not  to  stay  like  this,"  she  murmured,  when 
she  had  remained  in  the  position  a  long  while. 
"  Why  not }" 
"  It  is  indulgence." 

"  Still  on  the  same  tack  !  But  is  there  anything  better 
on  earth  than  that  we  should  love  one  another  .>" 

"  Yes.  It  depends  on  the  sort  of  love  ;  and  yours — 
ours — is  the  wrong." 

*'  I  won't  have  it.  Sue !  Come,  when  do  you  wish  our 
marriage  to  be  signed  in  a  vestry  ?"  y 

She   paused,  and   looked   up  uneasily.     "Never!"  she     - 
whispered.  /-"' 

Not  knowing  the  whole  of  her  meaning,  he  took  the 
objection  serenely,  and  said  nothing.  Several  minutes 
elapsed,  and  he  thought  she  had  fallen  asleep ;  but  he 
spoke  softly,  and  found  that  she  was  wide  awake  all  the 
time.     She  sat  upright  and  sighed. 

"There  is  a  strange,  indescribable  perfume  or  atmos- 
phere about  you  to-night.  Sue,"  he  said.  "  I  mean  not 
only  mentally,  but  about  your  clothes,  also  —  a  sort  of 
vegetable  scent,  which  I  seem  to  know,  yet  cannot  re- 
member." 

"  It  is  incense." 

"  Incense  ?" 

"  I  have  been  to  the  service  of  St.  Silas's,  and  I  was  in 

the  fumes  of  it." 

"  Oh— St.  Silas's."  ,•» 

"  Yes.     I  go  there  sometimes." 


412  JUDE  THE  OBSCURE 

"  Indeed  !     You  go  there  !" 

"  You  see,  Jude,  it  is  lonely  here  in  the  week-day  morn- 
ings, when  you  are  at  work,  and  I  think  and  think  of— of 
my — "  She  stopped  till  she  could  control  the  lumpiness 
of  her  throat.  "  And  I  have  taken  to  go  in  there,  as  it  is 
so  near." 

"  Oh,  well — of  course,  T  say  nothing  against  it.  Only  it 
is  odd,  for  you.  They  little  think  what  sort  of  chiel  is 
amang  them  I" 

"  What  do  you  mean,  Jude.'*" 

"Well — a  sceptic,  to  be  plain." 

"  How  can  you  pain  me  so,  dear  Jude,  in  my  trouble ! 
Yet  I  know  you  didn't  mean  it.  But  you  ought  not  to 
say  that." 

"  I  won't.     But  I  am  much  surprised  !" 

"  Well — I  want  to  tell  you  something  else,  Jude.  You 
won't  be  angry,  will  you  ?  I  have  thought  of  it  a  good 
deal  since  my  babies  died.  I  don't  think  I  ought  to  be 
your  wife — or  as  your  wife — any  longer." 

"  What !  .  .  .  But  you  are  /" 

"  From  your  point  of  view  ;  but — " 

"  Of  course  we  were  afraid  of  the  ceremony,  and  a  good 
many  others  would  have  been  in  our  places,  with  such 
strong  reasons  for  fear.  But  experience  has  proved  how  we 
misjudged  ourselves,  and  overrated  our  infirmities;  and 
if  you  are  beginning  to  respect  rites  and  ceremonies,  as 
you  seem  to  be,  I  wonder  you  don't  say  it  shall  be  carried 
out  instantly .''  You  certainly  are  my  wife.  Sue,  in  all  but 
law.     What  do  you  mean  by  what  you  said  .''" 

"  I  don't  think  I  am  !" 

"Not.'  But  suppose  we  //ad  gone  through  the  cere- 
mony.?    Would  you  feel  that  you  were  then?" 

"  No.  I  should  not  feel  even  then  that  I  was.  I  should 
feel  worse  than  I  do  now." 

"  Why  so — in  the  name  of  all  that's  perverse,  my  dear  !" 

"  Because  I  am  Richard's." 

"  Ah — you  hinted  that  absurd  fancy  to  me  before !" 


AT   CHRISTMINSTER  AGAIN  413 

"  It  was  only  an  impression  with  me  tiien  ;  I  feel  more 
and  more  convinced  as  time  goes  on  that — I  belong  to 
him,  or  to  nobody." 

"  My  good  heavens— how  we  are  changing  places  !" 

"  Yes.     Perhaps  so." 

Some  few  days  later,  in  the  dusk  of  the  summer  even- 
ing, they  were  sitting  in  the  same  small  room  down-stairs, 
when  a  knock  came  to  the  front  door  of  the  carpenter's 
house  where  they  were  lodging,  and  in  a  few  moments 
there  was  a  tap  at  the  door  of  their  room.  Before  they 
could  open  it  the  comer  did  so,  and  a  woman's  form  ap- 
peared. 

"  Is  Mr.  Fawley  here?" 

Jude  and  Sue  started  as  he  mechanically  replied  in  the 
affirmative,  for  the  voice  was  Arabella's. 

He  formally  requested  her  to  come  in,  and  she  sat 
down  in  the  window  bench,  where  they  could  distinctly 
see  her  outline  against  the  light,  but  no  characteristic 
that  enabled  them  to  estimate  her  general  aspect  and  air. 
Yet  something  seemed  to  denote  that  she  was  not  quite 
so  comfortably  circumstanced,  nor  so  bouncingly  attired, 
as  she  had  been  during  Cartlett's  lifetime. 

The  three  attempted  an  awkward  conversation  about 
the  tragedy,  of  which  Jude  had  felt  it  to  be  his  duty  to 
inform  her  immediately,  though  she  had  never  replied  to 
his  letter. 

"I  have  just  come  from  the  cemetery," she  said.  "  I 
inquired  and  found  the  child's  grave.  I  couldn't  come  to 
the  funeral— thank  you  for  inviting  me  all  the  same.  I 
read  all  about  it  in  the  papers,  and  I  felt  I  wasn't  want- 
ed. ..  .  No— I  couldn't  come  to  the  funeral,"  repeated 
Arabella,  who,  seeming  utterly  unable  to  reach  the  ideal  of 
a  catastrophic  manner,  fumbled  with  reiterations,  "but  I 
am  glad  I  found  the  grave.  As  'tis  your  trade,  Jude, 
you'll  be  able  to  put  up  a  handsome  stone  to  'em." 
"  I  shall  put  up  a  head-stone,"  said  Jude,  drearily. 
"  He  was  my  child,  and  naturally  I  feel  for  him." 


414  JUDE  THE  OBSCURE 

"  I  hope  so.     We  all  did." 

"  The  others  that  weren't  mine  I  didn't  feel  so  much 
for,  as  was  natural." 

"  Of  course." 

A  sigh  came  from  the  dark  corner  where  Sue  sat. 

"  I  had  often  wished  I  had  mine  with  me,"  continued 
Mrs.  Cartlett.  "Perhaps  'twouldn't  have  happened  then. 
But  of  course  I  didn't  wish  to  take  him  away  from  your 
wife." 

"  I  am  not  his  wife,"  came  from  Sue. 

The  unexpectedness  of  her  words  struck  Jude  silent. 

"  Oh,  I  beg  your  pardon,  I'm  sure,"  said  Arabella.  "  I 
thought  you  were !" 

Jude  had  known  from  the  quality  of  Sue's  tone  that 
her  new  and  transcendental  views  lurked  in  her  words ; 
but  all  except  their  obvious  meaning  was,  naturally,  missed 
by  Arabella.  The  latter,  after  evincing  that  she  was  struck 
by  Sue's  avowal,  recovered  herself,  and  went  on  to  talk 
with  placid  bluntness  about  "  her  "  boy,  for  whom,  though 
in  his  lifetime  she  had  shown  no  care  at  all,  she  now  ex- 
hibited a  ceremonial  mournfulness  that  was  apparently 
sustaining  to  the  conscience.  She  alluded  to  the  past, 
and  in  making  some  remark  appealed  again  to  Sue. 
There  was  no  answer:  Sue  had  invisibly  left  the  room. 

"  She  said  she  was  not  your  wife,"  resumed  Arabella, 
in  another  voice.     "  Why  should  she  do  that.'" 

"  I  cannot  inform  you,"  said  Jude,  shortly. 

"  She  is,  isn't  she  ?     She  once  told  me  so."  •' 

"  I  don't  criticise  what  she  says." 

*'  Ah — I  see  !  Well,  my  time  is  up.  I  am  staying  here 
to-night,  and  thought  I  could  do  no  less  than  call,  after 
our  mutual  affliction.  I  am  sleeping  at  the  place  where  I 
used  to  be  barmaid,  and  to-morrow  I  go  back  to  Alfred- 
ston.  Father  is  come  home  again,  and  I  am  living  with 
him." 

"  He  has  returned  from  Australia  ?"  said  Jude,  with  lan- 
guid curiositJ^ 


AT   CHRISTMINSTER   AGAIN  415 

"  Yes.  Couldn't  get  on  there.  Had  a  rough  time  of  it. 
Mother  died  of  dys  —  what  do  you  call  it — in  the  hot 
weather,  and  father  and  two  of  the  young  ones  have  just 
got  back.  He  has  got  a  cottage  near  the  old  place,  and 
for  the  present  I  am  keeping  house  for  him." 

Jude's  former  wife  had  maintained  a  stereotyped  man- 
ner of  strict  good-breeding  even  now  that  Sue  was  gone, 
and  limited  her  stay  to  a  number  of  minutes  that  should 
accord  with  the  highest  respectability.  When  she  had  de- 
parted, Jude,  much  relieved,  went  to  the  stairs  and  called 
Sue — feeling  anxious  as  to  what  had  become  of  her. 

There  was  no  answer,  and  the  carpenter  who  kept  the 
lodgings  said  she  had  not  come  in.  Jude  was  puzzled, 
and  became  quite  alarmed  at  her  absence,  for  the  hour 
was  growing  late.  The  carpenter  called  his  wife,  who 
conjectured  that  Sue  might  have  gone  to  St.  Silas's 
Church,  as  she  often  went  there. 

"  Surely  not  at  this  time  o' night  ?"  said  Jude.  "It  is 
shut." 

"  She  knows  somebody  who  keeps  the  key,  and  she  has 
it  whenever  she  wants  it." 

"  How  long  has  she  been  going  on  with  this.-*" 

"  Oh,  some  few  weeks,  I  think." 

Jude  went  vaguely  in  the  direction  of  the  church,  which 
he  had  never  once  approached  since  he  lived  out  that  way 
years  before,  when  his  young  opinions  were  more  mystical 
than  they  were  now.  The  spot  was  deserted,  but  the  door 
was  certainly  unfastened ;  he  lifted  the  latch  without 
noise,  and,  pushing  the  door  to  behind  him,  stood  abso- 
lutely still  inside.  The  prevalent  silence  seemed  to  con- 
tain a  faint  sound,  explicable  as  a  breathing,  or  a  sobbing, 
which  came  from  the  other  end  of  the  building.  The 
floor-cloth  deadened  his  footsteps  as  he  moved  in  that  di- 
rection through  the  obscurity,  which  was  broken  only  by 
the  faintest  reflected  night-light  from  without. 

High  overhead,  above  the  chancel  steps,  Jude  could  dis- 
cern a  huge,  solidly  constructed  Latin  cross  —  as  large. 


4l6  JUDE  THE  OBSCURE 

probably,  as  the  original  it  was  designed  to  commemorate. 
It  seemed  to  be  suspended  in  the  air  by  invisible  wires; 
it  was  set  with  large  jewels,  which  faintly  glimmered  in 
some  weak  ray  caught  from  outside,  as  the  cross  swayed 
to  and  fro  in  a  silent  and  scarcely  perceptible  motion. 
Underneath,  upon  the  fioor,  lay  what  appeared  to  be  a 
heap  of  black  clothes,  and  from  this  was  repeated  the  sob- 
bing that  he  had  heard  before.  It  was  his  Sue's  form, 
prostrate  on  the  paving. 
"  Sue  !"  he  whispered. 

Something  white  disclosed  itself ;  she  had  turned  up  her 
face. 

"What— do  you  want  with  me  here,  Jude?"  she  said. 
"  You  shouldn't  come  !  I  wanted  to  be  alone  !  Why  did 
you  intrude  here  }" 

"  How  can  you  ask  !"  he  retorted,  in  quick  reproach,  for 
his  full  heart  was  wounded  to  its  centre  at  this  attitude  of 
hers  towards  him.  '*  Why  do  I  come  ?  Who  has  a  right 
to  come,  I  should  like  to  know,  if  I  have  not  ?  I,  who  love 
you  better  than  my  own  self — better— oh,  far  better— than 
you  have  loved  me  I  What  made  you  leave  me  to  come 
here  alone .''" 

"  Don't  criticise  me,  Jude — I  can't  bear  it ! — I  have  often 
told  you  so.  You  must  take  me  as  I  am.  I  am  a  wretch — 
broken  by  my  distractions!  I  couldn'ti!^6Y?r  it  when  Arabella 
came — I  felt  so  utterly  miserable  I  had  to  come  away.  She 
seems  to  be  your  wife  still,  and  Richard  to  be  my  husband  !" 
"  But  they  are  nothing  to  us!" 
I  "Yes,  dear  friend,  they  are.     I  see  marriage  differently 

\     now.     My  babies  have  been  taken  from  me  to  show  me 
"^l^    this!    Arabella's  child  killing  mine  was  a  judgment — the 
right  slaying  the  wrong.     What,  w/m/  shall  I  do !     I  am 
such  a  vile  creature — too  worthless  to  mix  with  ordinary 
human  beings !" 

"This  is  terrible!"  said  Jude,  almost  in  tears.  "It  is 
monstrous  and  unnatural  for  you  to  be  so  remorseful 
when  you  have  done  no  wrong !" 


AT    CHRISTMINSTER    AGAIN  417 

"  Ah — you  don't  know  my  badness  !" 

He  returned,  vehemently  :  "  I  do  !  Every  atom  and 
dreg  of  it!  You  make  me  hate  Christianity,  or  mysti- 
cism, or  SacerdotaHsm,  or  whatever  it  may  be  called,  if  it's 
that  which  has  caused  this  deterioration  in  you.  That 
a  woman-poet,  a  woman-seer,  a  woman  whose  soul  shone 
like  a  diamond — whom  all  the  wise  of  the  world  would 
have  been  proud  of,  if  they  could  have  known  you — 
should  degrade  herself  like  this  !  I  am  glad  I  had  noth- 
ing to  do  with  Djvinity — damn  glad — if  it's  going  to  xviin^^^i^ 
you  in  this  way  !" 

"  You  are  angry,  Jude,  and  unkind  to  me,  and  don't  see 
how  things  are." 

"  Then  come  along  home  with  me,  dearest,  and  perhaps 
I  shall.  I  am  over-burdened — and  you,  too,  are  unhinged 
just  now."  He  put  his  arm  round  her  and  lifted  her; 
but  though  she  came,  she  preferred  to  walk  without  his 
support. 

"  I  don't  dislike  you,  Jude,"  she  said,  in  a  sweet  and  im- 
ploring voice.  "  I  love  you  as  much  as  ever !  Only — I 
ought  not  to  love  you — any  more.  Oh,  I  must  not  any 
more!" 

"  I  can't  own  it." 

"  But  I  have  made  up  my  mind  that  I  am  not  your 
wife!  I  belong  to  him — I  sacramentally  joined  myself  to 
him  for  life.     Nothing  can  alter  it !" 

"  But  surely  we  are  man  and  wife,  if  ever  two  people 
were  in  this  world  !  Nature's  own  marriage  it  is,  unques- 
tionably !" 

"  But  not  Heaven's.  Another  was  made  for  me  there, 
and  ratified  eternall}'-  in  the  church  at  Melchester."  \ 

"  Sue,  Sue — affliction  has  brought  you  to  this  unreason-  \ 
able  state!  After  converting  me  to  your  views  on  so 
many  things,  to  find  you  suddenly  turn  to  the  right-about 
like  this  —  for  no  reason  whatever,  confounding  all  you 
have  formerly  said  through  sentiment  merely  !  You  root 
out  of  me  what  little  affection  and  reverence  I  had  left  in 
27 


i- 


4l8  JUDE  THE   OBSCURE 

me  for  the  Church  as  an  old  acquaintance.  .  .  .  What  I 
can't  understand  in  you  is  your  extraordinary  blindness 
now  to  your  old  logic.     Is  it  peculiar  to  you,  or  is  it  com- 
mon to  woman  ?     Is  a  woman  a  thinking  unit  at  all,  or  a 
fraction  always  wanting  its  integer.?     How  you  argued 
that  marriage  was  only  a  clumsy  contract — which  it  is — 
^      "        how  you  showed  all  the  objections  to  it — all  the  absurdi- 
I  ties!     If  two  and  two  make  four  when  we  are  happy  to- 
i  gether,  surely  they  make  four  now?     I  can't  understand 
jPv"^  '  it,  I  repeat !" 

.  :a,      "  Ah,  dear  Jude,  that's  because  you  are  like  a  totally 
jj  fcy      deaf  man  observing  people  listening  to  music.     You  say, 
p/^        '  What  are  they  regarding  ?   Nothing  is  there.'    But  some- 
\  thing  is." 

y^  "  That  is  a  hard  saying  from  you,  and  not  a  true  par- 

allel!  You  threw  off  old  husks  of  prejudices,  and  taught 
me  to  do  it ;  and  now  you  go  back  upon  yourself.  I  con- 
fess I  am  utterly  stultified  in  my  estimate  of  you." 

"  Dear  friend,  my  only  friend,  don't  be  hard  with  me  ! 
I  can't  help  being  as  I  am,  and  I  am  convinced  I  am 
right — that  I  see  the  light  at  last.  But,  oh,  how  to  profit 
by  it !" 

They  walked  along  a  few  more  steps  till  they  were  out- 
side the  building,  and  she  had  returned  the  key.  "  Can  this 
be  the  girl,"  said  Jude,  when  she  came  back,  feeling  a 
slight  renewal  of  elasticity  now  that  he  was  in  the  open 
street — "  can  this  be  the  girl  who  brought  the  Pagan 
deities  into  this  most  Christian  city?  —  who  mimicked 
Miss  Fontover  when  she  crushed  them  with  her  heel  ? — 
quoted  Gibbon  and  Shelley  and  Mill  ?  Where  are  dear 
Apollo  and  dear  Venus  now  ?" 

"Oh,  don't,  don't  be  so  cruel  to  me,  Jude,  and  I  so 
unhappy  !"  she  sobbed.  "  I  can't  bear  it !  I  was  in  error 
— I  cannot  reason  with  you.  I  was  wrong — proud  in  my 
own  conceit!  Arabella's  coming  was  the  finish.  Don't 
satirize  me ;  it  cuts  like  a  knife  !" 

He  flung  his  arms  round  her  and  kissed  her  passion- 


if 
*— f' 


AT   CHRISTMINSTER  AGAIN  419 

ately  there  in  the  silent  street,  before  she  could  hinder 
him.  They  went  on  till  they  came  to  a  little  coffee-house, 
"  Jude,"  she  said,  with  suppressed  tears,  "  would  you  mind 
getting  a  lodging  here?" 

"  I  will— if,  if  you  really  wish  ?  But  do  you  ?  Let  me 
go  to  our  door  and  understand  you." 

He  went  and  conducted  her  in.  She  said  she  wanted 
no  supper,  and  went  in  the  dark  up-stairs  and  struck  a 
light.  Turning  she  found  that  Jude  had  followed  her,  and 
was  standing  at  the  chamber  door.  She  went  to  him,  put 
her  hand  in  his,  and  said,  "  Good-night." 

"  But  Sue  !     Don't  we  live  here  ?" 

"  You  said  you  would  do  as  I  wished !" 

"  Yes.  Very  well !  .  .  .  Perhaps  it  was  wrong  of  me  to 
argue  distastefully  as  I  have  done !  Perhaps,  as  we  couldn't 
conscientiously  marry  at  first  in  the  old-fashioned  way, 
we  ought  to  have  parted.  Perhaps  the  world  is  not  illu- 
minated enough  for  such  experiments  as  ours!  Who  were 
we,  to  think  we  could  act  as  pioneers  !" 

"  I  am  so  glad  you  see  that  much,  at  any  rate.  I  never 
deliberately  meant  to  do  as  I  did.  I  slipped  into  my  false 
position  through  jealousy  and  agitation." 

"  But  surely  through  love — you  loved  me  Y' 

"  Yes.  But  I  wanted  to  let  it  stop  there,  and  go  on  al- 
ways as  mere  lovers  ;  until — " 

"  But  people  in  love  couldn't  live  forever  like  that!" 

"  Women  could  ;  men  can't,  because  they— won't.  An 
average  woman  is  in  this  superior  to  an  average  man — 
that  she  never  instigates,  only  responds.  We  ought  to 
have  lived  in  mental  communion,  and  no  more." 

"  I  was  the  unhappy  cause  of  the  change,  as  I  have  said 
before.  .  .  .  Well,  as  you  will.  .  .  .  But  human  nature  can't 
help  being  itself." 

"Oh  yes— that's  just  what  it  has  to  learn — self-mas- 
tery." 

"I  repeat  —  if  either  were  to  blame  it  was  not  you, 

but  I." 


^ 


420  JUDE  THE   OBSCURE 

"  No — it  was  I.  Your  wickedness  was  only  the  natural 
man's  desire  to  possess  the  woman.  Mine  was  not  the 
reciprocal  wish  till  envy  stimulated  me  to  oust  Arabella. 
I  had  thought  I  ought  in  charity  to  let  you  approach  me 
—  that  it  was  damnably  selfish  to  torture  you  as  I  did  my 
other  friend.  But  I  shouldn't  have  given  way  if  you 
hadn't  broken  me  down  by  making  me  fear  you  would  go 
back  to  her.  .  .  .  But  don't  let  us  say  any  more  about  it. 
Jude,  will  you  leave  me  to  myself  now?" 

"  Yes.  .  .  .  But  Sue — my  wife,  as  you  are !"  he  burst  out— 
"  my  old  reproach  to  you  was,  after  all,  a  true  one.  You 
have  never  loved  me  as  I  love  you — never — never  I  Yours 
is  not  a  passionate  heart— your  heart  does  not  burn  in  a 
flame  !  You  are,  upon  the  whole,  cold — a  sort  of  fay,  or 
sprite — not  a  woman  !" 

"At  first  I  did  not  love  you,  Jude;  that  I  own.  When 
I  first  knew  you  I  merely  wanted  you  to  love  me.  I  did 
not  exactly  flirt  with  you  ;  but  that  inborn  craving  which 
undermines  some  women's  morals  almost  more  than  un- 
bridled passion — the  craving  to_attract  and  captivate,  re- 
gardless of  the  injury  it  may  do  the  "man — w-Ss  in  me; 
and  when  I  found  I  had  caught  you,  I  was  frightened. 
And  then — I  don't  know  how  it  was — I  couldn't  bear  to 
let  you  go — possibly  to  Arabella  again — and  so  I  got  to 
love  you,  Jude.  But,  you  see,  however  it  ended,  it  began 
in  the  selfish  and  cruel  wish  to  make  your  heart  ache  for 
me  without  letting  mine  ache  for  you." 

"  And  now  you  add  to  your  cruelty  by  leaving  me !" 

"Ah — yes!  The  further  I  flounder,  the  more  harm  I 
do!" 

"  Oh,  Sue !"  said  he,  with  a  sudden  sense  of  his  own 
danger.  "  Do  not  do  an  immoral  thing  for  moral  rea- 
sons !  You  have  been  my  social  salvation.  Stay  with 
me  for  humanity's  sake!  You  know  what  a  weak  fellow 
I  am.  My  two  Arch  Enemies  you  know — my  weakness 
for  women  and  my  impulse  to  strong  liquor.  Don't 
abandon  me  to  them,  Sue,  to  save  your  own  soul  only. 


AT   CHRISTMINSTER  AGAIN  42 1 

They  have  been  kept  entirely  at  a  distance  since  you  be- 
came my  guardian  angel !  Since  I  have  had  you  I  have 
been  able  to  go  into  any  temptations  of  the  sort  without 
risk.  Isn't  my  safety  worth  a  little  sacrifice  of  dogmatic 
principle  ?  I  am  in  terror  lest,  if  you  leave  me,  it  will 
be  with  me  another  case  of  the  pig  that  was  washed  turn- 
ing back  to  his  wallowing  in  the  mire  !" 

Sue  burst  out  weeping.     "  Oh,  but  you  must  not,  Jude  ! 
You  won't !     I'll  pray  for  you  night  and  day  !" 

"  Well,  never  mind  ;  don't  grieve,"  said  Jude,  generous- 
ly. "I  did  suffer,  God  knows,  about  you  at  that  time; 
and  now  I  suffer  again.  But  perhaps  not  so  much  as 
you.  The  woman  mostly  gets  the  worst  of  it  in  the  long- 
run." 
"She  does." 

"Unless  she  is  absolutely  worthless  and  contemptible! 
And  this  one  is  not  that,  anyhow  !" 

Sue  drew  a  nervous  breath  or  two.  "  She  is — I  fear. 
.  .  .  Now,  Jude — good-night — please  !" 

'■  I  mustn't  stay.'  Not  just  once  more  .-*  As  it  has  been 
so  many  times.     Oh,  Sue,  my  wife,  why  not }" 

"No  —  no  —  not  wife!  ...  I  am  in  your  hands,  Jude, 
don't  tempt  me  back,  now  I  have  advanced  so  far !" 

"  Very  well.  I  do  your  bidding.  I  owe  that  to  you, 
darling,  in  penance  for  how  I  overruled  it  at  the  first 
time.  My  God,  how  selfish  I  was!  Perhaps — perhaps  I 
spoiled  one  of  the  highest  and  purest  loves  that  ever  ex- 
isted between  man  and  woman !  .  .  .  Then  let  the  veil  of 
our  temple  be  rent  in  two  from  this  hour!" 

He  went  to  the  bed,  removed  one  of  the  pair  of  pillows 
thereon,  and  flung  it  to  the  floor. 

Sue  looked  at  him,  and,  bending  over  the  bed-rail,  wept 
silently.  "  You  don't  see  that  it  is  a  matter  of  conscience 
with  me,  and  not  of  dislike  to  you  !"  she  brokenly  mur- 
mured. "  Dislike  to  you  !  But  I  can't  say  any  more — it 
breaks  my  heart  —  it  will  be  undoing  all  I  have  begun! 
Jude — good-night !" 


422  JUDE  THE  OBSCURE 

"  Good-night,"  he  said,  and  turned  to  go. 

"  Oh,  but  you  shall  kiss  me  !"  said  she,  starting  up.  "  I 
can't — bear — " 

He  clasped  her,  and  kissed  her  weeping  face  as  he  had 
scarcely  ever  done  before,  and  they  remained  in  silence 
till  she  said,  "  Good-bye,  good-bye  !"  And  then  gently 
pressing  him  away  she  got  free,  trying  to  mitigate  the 
sadness  by  saying  :  "  We'll  be  dear  friends  just  the  same, 
Jude,  won't  we  ?  And  we'll  see  each  other  sometimes — 
yes!  and  forget  all  this,  and  try  to  be  as  we  were  long 
ago?" 

Jude  did  not  permit  himself  to  speak,  but  turned  and 
descended  the  stairs. 


*— r* 


IV 

The  man  whom  Sue,  in  her  mental  volte-face,  was 
now  regarding  as  her  inseparable  husband,  lived  still  at 
Marygreen. 

On  the  day  before  the  tragedy  of  the  children,  Phillot- 
son  had  seen  both  her  and  Jude  as  they  stood  in  the  rain 
at  Christminster  watching  the  procession  to  the  Theatre. 
But  he  had  said  nothing  of  it  at  the  moment  to  his  com- 
panion Gillingham,  who,  being  an  old  friend,  was  staying 
with  him  at  the  village  aforesaid,  and  had,  indeed,  sug- 
gested the  day's  trip  to  Christminster. 

"  What  are  you  thinking  of?"  said  Gillingham,  as  they 
went  home.  "  The  University  degree  you  never  ob- 
tained }" 

"  No,  no,"  said  Phillotson,  gruffly.  "  Of  somebody  I 
saw  to-day."     In  a  moment  he  added,  "  Susanna." 

"  I  saw  her,  too." 

"  You  said  nothing." 

"  I  didn't  wish  to  draw  your  attention  to  her.  But,  as 
you  did  see  her,  you  should  have  said,  '  How  d'ye  do,  my 
dear-that-was  ?' " 

"  Ah,  well.  I  might  have.  But  what  do  you  think  of 
this:  I  have  good  reason  for  supposing  that  she  was  in- 
nocent when  I  divorced  her — that  I  was  all  wrong.  Yes, 
indeed  !     Awkward,  isn't  it?" 

"  She  has  taken  care  to  set  you  right  since,  anyhow, 
apparently." 

"  H'm.  That's  a  cheap  sneer.  I  ought  to  have  waited, 
unquestionably." 

At  the  end  of  the  week,  when  Gillingham   had  gone 


424  JUDE  THE  OBSCURE 

back  to  his  school  near  Shaston,  Phillotson,  as  was  his 
custom,  went  to  Alfredston  market;  ruminating  again  on 
Arabella's  intelligence  as  he  walked  down  the  long  hill 
which  he  had  known  before  Jude  knew  it,  though  his 
histor}^  had  not  beaten  so  intensely  upon  its  incline.  Ar- 
rived in  the  town  he  bought  his  usual  weekly  local  paper; 
and  when  he  had  sat  down  in  an  inn  to  refresh  himself  for 
the  five  miles'  walk  back,  he  pulled  the  paper  from  his 
pocket  and  read  a  while.  The  account  of  the  "  Strange 
suicide  of  a  stone-cutter's  children  "  met  his  eye. 

Unimpassioned  as  he  was,  it  impressed  him  painfully, 
and  puzzled  him  not  a  little,  for  he  could  not  understand 
the  age  of  the  elder  child  being  what  it  was  stated  to  be. 
However,  there  was  no  doubt  that  the  newspaper  report 
was  in  some  way  true. 

"  Their  cup  of  sorrow  is  now  full !"  he  said  ;  and  thought 
and  thought  of  Sue,  and  what  she  had  gained  by  leaving 
him. 

Arabella  having  made  her  home  at  Alfredston,  and  the 
school-master  coming  to  market  there  every  Saturday,  it 
was  not  wonderful  that  in  a  few  weeks  they  met  again — 
the  precise  time  being  just  after  her  return  from  Christ- 
minster,  where  she  had  stayed  much  longer  than  she  had 
at  first  intended;  keeping  an  interested  eye  on  Jude,  though 
Jude  had  seen  no  more  of  her.  Phillotson  was  on  his 
way  homeward  when  he  encountered  Arabella,  and  she 
was  approaching  the  town. 

"  You  like  walking  out  this  way,  Mrs.  Cartlett  ?"  he 
said. 

"  I've  just  begun  to  again,"  she  replied.  "  It  is  where  I 
lived  as  maid  and  wife,  and  all  the  past  things  of  my  life 
that  are  interesting  to  my  feelings  are  mixed  up  with  this 
road.  And  they  have  been  stirred  up  in  me  too,  lately  ; 
for  I've  been  visiting  at  Christminster.  Yes  ;  I've  seen 
Jude." 

"  Ah  !     How  do  they  bear  their  terrible  affliction  ?" 

"  In  a  ve-ry  strange  way — ve-ry  strange  !     She  don't  live 


i^- 


AT   CHRISTMINSTER   AGAIN  425 

with  him  any  longer.  I  only  heard  of  it  as  a  certainty 
just  before  I  left;  though  I  had  thought  things  were 
drifting  that  way  from  their  manner  when  I  called  on 
them." 

"  Not  live  with  her  husband  ?  Why,  I  should  have 
thought  'twould  have  united  them  more." 

"  He's  not  her  husband,  after  all.  She  has  never  really 
married  him,  although  they  have  passed  as  man  and  wife 
so  long.  And  now,  instead  of  this  sad  event  making 
'em  hurry  up  and  get  the  thing  done  legally,  she's  took 
in  a  queer  religious  way,  just  as  I  was  in  my  affliction  at 
losing  Cartlett,  only  hers  is  of  a  more  'sterical  sort  than 
mine.  And  she  says,  so  I  was  told,  that  she's  your  wife 
in  the  eye  of  Heaven  and  the  Church.  Yours  only,  and 
can't  be  anybody  else's  by  any  act  of  man." 

"Ah — indeed!  .  .  .  Separated,  have  they.!*" 

"  You  see,  the  eldest  boy  was  mine — " 

'*  Oh — yours  ! " 

"  Yes,  poor  little  fellow — born  in  lawful  wedlock,  thank 
God !  And  perhaps  she  feels,  over  and  above  other  things, 
that  I  ought  to  have  been  in  her  place.  I  can't  say.  How- 
ever, as  for  me,  I  am  soon  off  from  here.  I've  got  father 
to  look  after  now,  and  we  can't  live  in  such  a  humdrum 
place  as  this.  I  hope  soon  to  be  in  a  bar  again  at  Christ- 
minster,  or  some  other  big  town." 

They  parted.  When  Phillotson  had  ascended  the  hill 
a  few  steps  he  stopped,  hastened  back,  and  called  her. 

"  What  is.  or  was,  their  address  ?" 

Arabella  gave  it. 

"Thank  you.     Good-afternoon." 

Arabella  smiled  grimly  as  she  resumed  her  way,  and 
practised  dimple-making  all  along  the  road,  from  where 
the  pollard  willows  begin  to  the  old  almshouses  in  the 
first  street  of  the  town. 

Meanwhile  I'hillotson  ascended  to  Marygreen,  and  for 
the  first  time  during  a  lengthened  period  lie  lived  with  a 
forward  eye.     On  crossing  under  the  large  trees  of  the 


426  JUDE  THE  OBSCURE 

green  to  the  humble  school-house  to  which  he  had  been 
reduced,  he  stood  a  moment,  and  pictured  Sue  coming 
out  of  the  door  to  meet  him.  No  man  had  ever  suffered 
more  inconvenience  from  his  own  charity,  Christian  or 
heathen,  than  Phillotson  had  done  in  letting  Sue  go. 
He  had  been  knocked  about  from  pillar  to  post  at  the  hands 
of  the  virtuous  almost  beyond  endurance;  he  had  been 
nearly  starved,  and  was  now  dependent  entirely  upon  the 
very  small  stipend  from  the  school  of  this  village  (where  the 
parson  had  got  ill-spoken  of  for  befriending  him).  He  had 
often  thought  of  Arabella's  remark  that  he  should  have 
been  more  severe  with  Sue,  that  her  recalcitrant  spirit 
would  soon  have  been  broken.  Yet  such  was  his  obsti- 
nate and  illogical  disregard  of  opinion,  and  of  the  princi- 
ples in  which  he  had  been  trained,  that  his  convictions 
on  the  rightness  of  his  course  with  his  wife  had  not  been 
disturbed. 

Principles  which  could  be  subverted  by  feeling  in  one 
direction  were  liable  to  the  same  catastrophe  in  another. 
The  instincts  which  had  allowed  him  to  give  Sue  her 
liberty  now  enabled  him  to  regard  her  as  none  the  worse 
for  her  life  with  Jude.  He  wished  for  her  still,  in  his 
curious  way,  if  he  did  not  love  her,  and,  apart  from 
policy,  soon  felt  that  he  would  be  gratified  to  have  her 
again  as  his,  always  provided  that  she  came  willingly. 

But  artifice  was  necessary,  he  had  found,  for  stemming 
the  cold  and  inhumane  blast  of  the  world's  contempt. 
And  here  were  the  materials  ready  made.  By  getting 
Sue  back  and  re-marrying  her  on  the  respectable  plea  of 
having  entertained  erroneous  views  of  her,  and  gained 
his  divorce  wrongfully,  he  might  acquire  some  comfort, 
resume  his  old  courses,  perhaps  return  to  the  Shaston 
school,  if  not  even  to  the  church  itself  as  a  licentiate. 

He  thought  he  would  write  to  Gillingham  to  inquire 
his  views,  and  what  he  thought  of  his,  Phillotson's,  send- 
ing a  letter  to  her.  Gillingham  replied,  naturally,  that 
now  she  was  gone  it  were  best  to  let  her  be ;  and  con- 


AT   CHRISTMINSTER  AGAIN  427 

sidered  that  if  she  were  anybody's  wife  she  was  the  wife  of 
the  man  to  whom  she  had  borne  three  children  and  owed 
such  tragical  adventures.  Probably,  as  his  attachment 
to  her  seemed  unusually  strong,  the  singular  pair  would 
make  their  union  legal  in  course  of  time,  and  all  would 
be  well,  and  decent,  and  in  order. 

"But  they  won't — Sue  won't!"  exclaimed  Phillotson 
to  himself.  "  Gillingham  is  so  old-fashioned.  She's  af- 
fected by  Christminster  sentiment  and  teaching.  I  can 
see  her  views  on  the  indissolubility  of  marriage  well 
enough,  and  I  know  where  she  got  them.  They  are  not 
mine;  but  I  shall  make  use  of  them  to  further  mine." 

He  wrote  a  brief  reply  to  Gillingham.  "  I  know  I  am 
entirely  wrong,  but  I  don't  agree  with  you.  As  to  her 
having  lived  with  and  had  three  children  by  him,  my 
feeling  is  (though  I  can  advance  no  logical  or  moral  de- 
fence of  it,  on  the  old  lines)  that  it  has  done  little  more 
than  finish  her  education.  1  shall  write  to  her,  and  learn 
whether  what  that  woman  said  is  true  or  no." 

As  he  had  made  up  his  mind  to  do  this  before  he  had 
written  to  his  friend,  there  had  not  been  much  reason 
for  writing  to  the  latter  at  all.  However,  it  was  Phillot- 
son's  way  to  act  thus. 

He  accordingly  addressed  a  carefully  considered  epistle 
to  Sue,  and,  knowing  her  emotional  temperament,  threw 
a  Rhadamanthine  strictness  into  it  here  and  there,  care- 
fully hiding  his  heterodox  feelings,  not  to  frighten  her. 
He  stated  that,  it  having  come  to  his  knowledge  that  her 
views  had  considerably  changed,  he  felt  compelled  to  say 
that  his  own,  too,  were  largely  modified  by  events  sub- 
sequent to  their  parting.  He  would  not  conceal  from 
her  that  passionate  love  had  little  to  do  with  his  com- 
munication. It  arose  from  a  wish  to  make  their  lives,  if 
not  a  success,  at  least  no  such  disastrous  failure  as  they 
threatened  to  become,  through  his  acting  on  what  he 
had  considered  at  the  time  a  principle  of  justice,  charity, 
and  reason. 


428  JUDE  THE  OBSCURE 

To  indulge  one's  instinctive  and  uncontrolled  sense  of 
justice  and  right  was  not,  he  had  found,  permitted  with 
impunity  in  an  old  civilization  like  ours.  It  was  neces- 
sary to  act  under  an  acquired  and  artificial  sense  of  the 
same  if  you  wished  to  enjoy  an  average  share  of  comfort 
and  honor,  and  to  let  loving-kindness  take  care  of  itself. 

He  suggested  that  she  should  come  to  him  there  at 
Marygreen. 

On  second  thoughts  he  took  out  the  last  paragraph  but 
one ;  and  having  rewritten  the  letter,  he  despatched  it 
immediately,  and  in  some  excitement  awaited  the  issue. 

A  few  days  after  a  figure  moved  through  the  white  fog 
which  enveloped  the  Beersheba  suburb  of  Christminster 
towards  the  quarter  in  which  Jude  Fawley  had  taken  up 
his  lodging  since  his  division  from  Sue.  A  timid  knock 
sounded  upon  the  door  of  his  abode. 

It  was  evening,  so  he  was  at  home;  and  by  a  species 
of  divination  he  jumped  up  and  rushed  to  the  door  him- 
self. 

"  Will  you  come  out  with  me  ?  I  would  rather  not 
come  in.  I  want  to— to  talk  with  you,  and  to  go  with 
you  to  the  cemetery." 

It  had  been  in  the  trembling  accents  of  Sue  that  these 
words  came.  Jude  put  on  his  hat.  "  It  is  dreary  for  you 
to  be  out,"  he  said.  "  But  if  you  prefer  not  to  come  in,  I 
don't  mind." 

"  Yes — I  do.     I  shall  not  keep  you  long." 

Jude  was  too  much  affected  to  go  on  talking  at  first; 
she,  too,  was  now  such  a  mere  cluster  of  nerves  that  all 
initiatory  power  seemed  to  have  left  her,  and  they  pro- 
ceeded through  the  fog  like  Acherontic  shades  for  a  long 
while,  without  sound  or  gesture. 

"  I  want  to  tell  you,"  she  presently  said,  her  voice  now 
quick,  now  slow,  "  so  that  you  may  not  hear  of  it  by 
chance.  I  am  going  back  to  Richard.  He  has— so  mag- 
nanimously— agreed  to  forgive  all." 


AT    CHRISTMINSTER    AGAIN  42g, 

"  Going  back  ?     How  can  you  go — " 

"  He  is  going  to  marry  me  again.  That  is  for  form's 
sake,  and  to  satisfy  the  world,  which  does  not  see  things 
as  they  are.  But,  of  course,  I  am  his  wife  already.  Noth- 
ing has  changed  that." 

He  turned  upon  her  with  an  anguish  that  was  wellnigh 
fierce. 

"  But  you  are  viy  wife  !  Yes,  you  are  !  You  know  it !  I 
have  always  regretted  that  feint  of  ours  in  going  away 
and  pretending  to  come  back  legally  married,  to  save  ap- 
pearances. I  loved  you  and  you  loved  me,  and  we  closed 
with  each  other,  and  that  made  the  marriage.  We  still 
love — you  as  well  as  I — I  know  it,  Sue  !  Therefore,  our 
marriage  is  not  cancelled." 

"Yes;  I  know  how  you  see  it,"  she  answered,  with  de- 
spairing self-suppression.  "  But  I  am  going  to  marry  him 
again,  as  it  would  be  called  by  you.  Strictly  speaking, 
you,  too — don't  mind  my  saying  it,  Jude  !  —  you  should 
take  back — Arabella." 

"  I  should  ?  Good  God,  what  next !  But  how  if  you 
and  I  had  married  legally,  as  we  were  on  the  point  of 
doing  ?" 

"  I  should  have  felt  just  the  same — that  ours  was  not  a 
marriage.  And  I  would  go  back  to  Richard  without 
repeating  the  sacrament  if  he  asked  me.  But  'the 
world  and  its  ways  have  a  certain  worth  '  (I  suppose), 
therefore  I  concede  a  repetition  of  the  ceremony.  .  .  . 
Don't  crush  all  the  life  out  of  me  by  satire  and  argument, 
I  implore  you  !  I  was  strongest  once,  I  know,  and  per- 
haps I  treated  you  cruelly.  But,  Jude,  return  good  for 
evil !  I  am  the  weaker  now.  Don't  retaliate  upon  me. 
but  be  kind.  Oh,  be  kind  to  me— a  poor,  wicked  woman 
who  is  trying  to  mend  !" 

He  shook  his  head  hopelessl3%  his  eyes  wet.  The  blow 
of  her  bereavement  seemed  to  have  destroyed  her  reason- 
ing faculty.  The  once  keen  vision  was  dimmed.  "All 
wrong,  all  wrong  I"  he  said,  huskily.    "  Error — perversity! 


430  JUDE   THE  OBSCURE 

It  drives  me  out  of  my  senses.  Do  j'ou  care  for  him? 
Do  you  love  him?  You  know  you  don't!  It  will  be  a 
fanatic  prostitution — God  forgive  me,  yes — that's  what  it 
will  be  !" 

"  I  don't  love  him — I  must,  must  own  it,  in  deepest  re- 
morse !  But  I  shall  try  to  learn  to  love  him  by  obeying 
him." 

Jude  argued,  urged,  implored  ;  but  her  conviction  was 
proof  against  all.  It  seemed  to  be  the  one  thing  on  earth 
on  which  she  was  firm,  and  that  her  firmness  in  this  had 
left  her  tottering  in  every  other  impulse  and  wish  she 
possessed. 

"  I  have  been  considerate  enough  to  let  you  know  the 
whole  truth,  and  to  tell  it  you  myself,"  she  said,  in  cut 
tones,  "that  you  might  not  consider  yourself  slighted  by 
hearing  of  it  at  second-hand.  I  have  even  owned  the 
extreme  fact  that  I  do  not  love  him.  I  did  not  think  you 
would  be  so  rough  with  me  for  doing  so!  I  was  going  to 
ask  you — " 

"  To  give  you  away  ?" 

"  No.  To  send — my  boxes  to  me — if  you  would.  But 
I  suppose  you  won't." 

"Why,  of  course  I  will.  What — isn't  he  coming  to 
fetch  you— to  marry  you  from  here  ?  He  won't  conde- 
scend to  do  that  ?" 

"  No — I  won't  let  him.  I  goto  him  voluntarily,  just  as 
I  went  away  from  him.  We  are  to  be  married  at  his  little 
church  at  Marygreen." 

She  was  so  sadly  sweet  in  what  he  called  her  wrong- 
headedness  that  Jude  could  not  help  being  moved  to  tears 
more  than  once  for  pity  of  her.  "  I  never  knew  such  a 
woman  for  doing  impulsive  penances  as  you.  Sue  !  No 
sooner  does  one  expect  you  to  go  straight  on,  as  the  one 
rational  proceeding,  than  you  double  round  the  cor- 
ner !" 

"Ah,  well,  let  that  go !  .  .  .  Jude,  I  must  say  good- 
bye !    But  I  wanted  you  to  go  to  the  cemetery  with  me. 


AT   CHRISTMINSTER  AGAIN  431 

Let  our  farewell  be  there — beside  the  graves  of  those  who 
died  to  bring  home  to  me  the  error  of  my  views." 

They  turned  in  the  direction  of  the  place,  and  the  gate 
was  opened  to  them  on  application.  Sue  had  been  there 
often,  and  she  knew  the  way  to  the  spot  in  the  dark. 
They  reached  it,  and  stood  still, 

"  It  is  here — I  should  like  to  part,"  said  she. 

"So  be  it." 

"  Don't  think  me  hard  because  I  have  acted  on  convic- 
tion. Your  generous  devotion  to  me  is  unparalleled, 
Jude.  Your  worldly  failure,  if  you  have  failed,  is  to  your 
credit  rather  than  to  your  blame.     Remember  that  the   /  « 

best  and  greatest  among  mankind  are  those  who  do 
themselves  no  worldly  good.  Every  successful  man  is 
more  or  less  a  selfish  man.  The  devoted  fail.  ,  .  , 
'  Charity  seeketh  not  her  own.'  " 

"In  that  chapter  we  are  at  one,  ever  beloved  darling, 
and  on  it  we'll  part  friends.  Its  verses  will  stand  fast 
when  all  the  rest  that  you  call  religion  has  passed  away  I" 

"Well — don't  discuss  it.  Good-bye,  Jude,  my  fellow- 
sinner,  and  kindest  friend  !" 

"  Good-bye,  my  mistaken  wife.    Good-bye  !" 


The  next  afternoon  the  familiar  Christmjnster  fog  still 
hung  over  all  things.  Sue's  slim  shape  was  onlj'-  just  dis- 
cernible going  towards  the  station. 

Jude  had  no  heart  to  go  to  his  work  that  day.  Neither 
could  he  go  anywhere  in  the  direction  by  which  she  would 
be  likely  to  pass.  He  went  in  an  opposite  one — to  a  dreary, 
strange,  flat  scene,  where  boughs  dripped,  and  coughs  and 
consumption  lurked,  and  where  he  had  never  been  be- 
fore. 

"  Sue's  gone  from  me — gone  !"  he  murmured,  miserably. 

She  in  the  mean  time  had  left  by  the  train,  and  reached 
Alfredston  Road,  where  she  entered  the  steam-tram  and 
was  conveyed  into  the  town.  It  had  been  her  request  to 
Phillotson  that  he  should  not  meet  her.  She  wished,  she 
said,  to  come  to  him  voluntarily,  to  his  very  house  and 
hearth-stone. 

It  was  Friday  evening,  which  had  been  chosen  because 
the  school  -  master  was  disengaged  at  four  o'clock  that 
day  till  the  Monday  morning  following.  The  little  car 
she  hired  at  The  Bear  to  drive  her  to  Marygreen  set  her 
down  at  the  end  of  the  lane,  half  a  mile  from  th^  village, 
by  her  desire,  and  preceded  her  to  the  school-house  with 
such  portion  of  her  luggage  as  she  had  brought.  On  its 
return  she  encountered  it,  and  asked  the  driver  if  he  had 
found  the  master's  house  open.  The  man  informed  her 
that  he  had,  and  that  her  things  had  been  taken  in  by  the 
school-master  himself. 

She  could  now  enter  Marygreen  without  exciting  much 
observation.    She  crossed  by  the  well  and  under  the  trees 


AT   CHRISTMINSTER   AGAIN  433 

to  the  pretty  new  school  on  the  other  side,  and  Hfted  the 
latch  of  the  dwelling  without  knocking.  Phillotson  stood 
in  the  middle  of  the  room,  awaiting  her,  as  requested. 

"  I've  come,  Richard,"  said  she,  looking  pale  and 
shaken,  and  sinking  into  a  chair.  "  I  cannot  believe — 
you  forgive  your — wife  !" 

"  Everything,  darling  Susanna,"  said  Phillotson. 

She  started  at  the  endearment,  though  it  had  been 
spoken  advisedly,  without  fervor.  Then  she  nerved  her- 
self again. 

"My  children  —  are  dead  —  and  it  is  right  that  they 
should  be  !  I  am  glad — almost.  They  were  sin-begotten. 
They  were  sacrificed  to  teach  me  how  to  live ! — their 
death  was  the  first  stage  of  my  purification.  That's  why 
they  have  not  died  in  vain  !  .  .  .  You  will  take  me  back  ?" 

He  was  so  stirred  by  her  pitiful  words  and  tone  that  he 
did  more  than  he  had  meant  to  do.  He  bent  and  kissed 
her  cheek. 

Sue  imperceptibly  shrank  away,  her  flesh  quivering  un- 
der the  touch  of  his  lips. 

Phillotson's  heart  sank,  for  desire  was  renascent  in  him. 
"  You  still  have  an  aversion  to  me  ?" 

"  Oh  no,  dear — I — have  been  driving  through  the  damp, 
and  I  was  chilly  !"  she  said,  with  a  hurried  smile  of  appre- 
hension. "  When  are  we  going  to  have  the  marriage  ? 
Soon  ?" 

"To-morrow  morning,  early,  I  thought  —  if  you  really 
wish.  I  am  sending  round  to  the  vicar  to  let  him  know 
you  are  come.  I  have  told  him  all,  and  he  highly  ap- 
proves— he  says  it  will  bring  our  lives  to  a  triumphant 
and  satisfactory  issue.  But  —  are  you  sure  of  yourself? 
It  is  not  too  late  to  refuse  now  if  —  you  think  you  can't 
bring  yourself  to  it,  you  know." 

"  Yes,  yes,  I  can  !  I  want  it  done  quick.  Tell  him,  tell 
him  at  once  !  My  strength  is  tried  by  the  undertaking — 
I  can't  wait  long  !" 

"  Have  something  to  eat  and  drink  then,  and  go  over 

28 


434  JUDE  THE  OBSCURE 

to  your  room  at  Mrs.  Edlin's.  I'll  tell  the  vicar  half-past 
eight  to-morrow,  before  anybody  is  about — if  that's  not 
too  soon  for  you.  My  friend  Gillingham  is  here  to  help 
us  in  the  ceremony.  He's  been  good  enough  to  come  all 
the  way  from  Shaston  at  great  inconvenience  to  himself." 

Unlike  a  woman  in  ordinary,  whose  eye  is  so  keen  for 
material  things,  Sue  seemed  to  see  nothing  of  the  room 
they  were  in,  or  any  detail  of  her  environment.  But  on 
moving  across  the  parlor  to  put  down  her  muff  she  ut- 
tered a  little  "  Oh !"  and  grew  paler  than  before.  Her 
look  was  that  of  the  condemned  criminal  who  catches 
sight  of  his  cofhn. 

"  What  ?"  said  Phillotson. 

The  flap  of  the  bureau  chanced  to  be  open,  and  in  plac- 
ing her  muff  upon  it  her  eye  had  caught  a  document 
which  lay  there.  "Oh  —  only  a  —  funny  surprise!"  she 
said,  trying  to  laugh  away  her  cry  as  she  came  back  to 
the  table. 

"Ah!  yes,"  said  Phillotson.     "The  license.  ...  It  has 

just  come." 

Gillingham  now  joined  them  from  his  room  above,  and 
Sue  nervously  made  herself  agreeable  to  him  by  talking 
on  whatever  she  thought  likely  to  interest  him,  except 
herself,  though  that  interested  him  most  of  all.  She  obe- 
diently ate  some  supper,  and  prepared  to  leave  for  her 
lodging  hard  by.  Phillotson  crossed  the  green  with  her, 
bidding  her  good-night  at  Mrs.  Edlin's  door. 

The  old  woman  accompanied  Sue  to  her  temporary 
quarters  and  helped  her  to  unpack.  Among  other  things 
she  laid  out  a  night-gown  tastefully  embroidered. 

"Oh,  I  didn't  know  t/ia^  was  put  in  !"  said  Sue,  quick- 
ly. "I  didn't  mean  it  to  be.  Here  is  a  different  one." 
She  handed  a  new  and  absolutely  plain  garment,  of  coarse 
and  unbleached  calico. 

"  But  this  is  the  prettiest,"  said  Mrs.  Edlin.  "  That  one 
is  no  better  than  very  sackcloth  o'  Scripture  !" 

"  Yes,  I  meant  it  to  be.    Give  me  the  other." 


AT    CHRISTMINSTER    AGAIN  435 

She  took  it,  and  began  rending  it  with  all  her  might, 
the  tears  resounding  through  the  house  like  a  screech- 
owi. 

"  But,  my  dear,  dear  ! — whatever.  .  .  ." 

"It  is  adulterous!  It  signifies  what  I  don't  feel  —  I 
bought  it  long  ago  —  to  please  Jude.  It  must  be  de- 
stroyed !" 

Mrs.  Edlin  lifted  her  hands,  and  Sue  excitedly  continued 
to  tear  the  linen  into  strips,  laying  the  pieces  in  the  fire. 

"  You  med  ha'  give  it  to  me  !"  said  the  widow.  "  It  do 
make  my  heart  ache  to  see  such  pretty  open-work  as  that 
a-burned  by  the  flames — not  that  ornamental  night-rails 
can  be  much  use  to  a'  ould  'ooman  like  I.  My  days  for 
such  be  all  past  and  gone  !" 

"  It  is  an  accursed  thing — it  reminds  me  of  what  I  want 
to  forget !"  Sue  repeated.     "  It  is  only  fit  for  the  fire." 

"  Lord,  you  be  too  strict !  What  do  ye  use  such  words 
for,  and  condemn  to  hell  your  dear  little  innocent  chil- 
dren that's  lost  to  'ee  !  Upon  my  life,  I  don't  call  that 
religion ! " 

Sue  flung  her  face  upon  the  bed,  sobbing.  "  Oh,  don't, 
don't !  That  kills  me  !"  She  remained  shaken  with  her 
grief,  and  slipped  down  upon  her  knees. 

"I'll  tell  'ee  what  —  you  ought  not  to  marry  this  man 
again!"  said  Mrs.  Edlin,  indignantly.  "You  are  in  love 
wi'  t'other  still !" 

"Yes,  I  must — I  am  his  already." 

"  Pshoo  !  You  be  t'other  man's.  If  you  didn't  like  to 
commit  yourselves  to  the  binding  vow  again,  just  at  first, 
'twas  all  the  more  credit  to  your  consciences,  considering 
your  reasons,  and  you  med  ha'  lived  on,  and  made  it  all 
right  at  last.  After  all,  it  concerned  nobody  but  your  own 
two  selves." 

"  Richard  says  he'll  have  me  back,  and  I'm  bound  to 
go !  If  he  had  refused,  it  might  not  have  been  so  much 
my  duty  to— give  up  Jude.  But — "  She  remained  with 
her  face  in  the  bed-clothes,  and  Mrs.  Edlin  left  the  room. 


436  JUDE   THE  OBSCURE 

Phillotson  in  the  interval  had  gone  back  to  his  friend 
Gillingham,  who  still  sat  over  the  supper-table.  They 
soon  rose,  and  walked  out  on  the  green  to  smoke  a  while. 
A  light  was  burning  in  Sue's  room,  a  shadow  moving  now 
and  then  across  the  blind. 

Gillingham  had  evidently  been  impressed  with  the  in- 
definable charm  of  Sue,  and  after  a  silence  he  said  : 
"  Well,  you've  all  but  got  her  again  at  last.  She  can't 
very  well  go  a  second  time.  The  pear  has  dropped  into 
your  hand." 

"  Yes !  .  .  .  I  suppose  I  am  right  in  taking  her  at  her 
word.  I  confess  there  seems  a  touch  of  selfishness  in  it. 
Apart  from  her  being  what  she  is,  of  course,  a  luxury  for 
a  fogey  like  me,  it  will  set  me  right  in  the  eyes  of  the 
clergy  and  orthodox  laity,  who  have  never  forgiven  me 
for  letting  her  go.  So  I  may  get  back  in  some  degree  into 
my  old  track." 

"  Well,  if  you've  got  any  sound  reason  for  marrying  her 
again,  do  it  now,  in  God's  name.  I  was  always  against 
your  opening  the  cage  door  and  letting  the  bird  go  in  such 
an  obviously  suicidal  way.  You  might  have  been  a  school 
inspector  by  this  time,  or  a  reverend,  if  you  hadn't  been 
so  weak  about  her." 

"  I  did  myself  irreparable  damage — I  know  it." 

"Once  you've  got  her  housed  again,  stick  to  her." 

Phillotson  was  more  evasive  to-night.  He  did  not  care 
to  admit  clearly  that  his  taking  Sue  to  him  again  had  at 
bottom  nothing  to  do  with  repentance  of  letting  her  go, 
but  was,  primarily,  a  human  instinct  flying  in  the  face  of 
custom  and  profession.  He  said,  "  Yes,  I  shall  do  that. 
I  know  woman  better  now.  Whatever  justice  there  was 
in  releasing  her,  there  was  little  logic,  for  one  holding  my 
views  on  other  subjects." 

Gillingham  looked  at  him,  and  wondered  whether  it 
would  ever  happen  that  the  reactionary  spirit  induced 
by  the  world's  sneers  and  his  own  physical  wishes 
would  make   Phillotson  more  orthodoxly  cruel    to   her 


SUE   CONTINUED   TO   TEAR   THE   LINEN    INTO   STRIPS" 


AT   CHRISTMINSTER  AGAIN  437 

than   he  had  erstwhile  been   informally  and   perversely 
kind. 

"  I  perceive  it  won't  do  to  give  way  to  impulse,"  Phil- 
lotson  resumed,  feeling  more  and  more  every  minute  the 
necessity  of  acting  up  to  his  position.  "  I  flew  in  the  face 
of  the  Church's  teaching  ;  but  I  did  it  without  malice  pre- 
pense. Women  are  so  strange  in  their  influence  that 
they  tempt  you  to  misplaced  kindness.  However,  I 
know  myself  better  now.  A  little  judicious  severity,  per- 
haps. ..." 

"  Yes;  but  you  must  tighten  the  reins  by  degrees  only. 
Don't  be  too  strenuous  at  first.  She'll  come  to  any  terms 
in  time." 

The  caution  was  unnecessary,  though  Phillotson  did 
not  say  so.  "  I  remember  what  my  vicar  at  Shaston  said, 
when  I  left  after  the  row  that  was  made  about  my  agree- 
ing to  her  elopement.  'The  only  thing  you  can  do  to  re- 
trieve your  position  and  hers  is  to  admit  your  error  in 
not  restraining  her  with  a  wise  and  strong  hand,  and  to 
get  her  back  again  if  she'll  come,  and  be  firm  in  the  fut- 
ure.' But  I  was  so  headstrong  at  that  time  that  I  paid 
no  heed.  And  that  after  the  divorce  she  should  have 
thought  of  doing  so  I  did  not  dream." 

The  gate  of  Mrs.  Edlin's  cottage  clicked,  and  somebody 
began  crossing  in  the  direction  of  the  school.  Phillotson 
said  "  Good-night." 

"  Oh,  is  that  Mr.  Phillotson  ?"  said  Mrs.  Edlin.  "  I  was 
going  over  to  see  'ee.  I've  been  up-stairs  with  her,  help- 
ing her  to  unpack  her  things;  and  upon  my  word,  sir,  I 
don't  tliink  this  ought  to  be  !" 

"  What— the  wedding  ?" 

"Yes.  She's  forcing  herself  to  it,  poor  dear  little  thing, 
and  you've  no  notion  what  she's  suffering.  I  was  never 
much  for  religion  nor  against  it,  but  it  can't  be  right  to  let 
her  do  this,  and  you  ought  to  persuade  her  out  of  it.  Of 
course,  everybody  will  say  it  was  very  good  and  forgiving 
of  'ee  to  take  her  to  'ee  again.    But,  for  my  part,  I  don't." 


438  JUDE  THE   OBSCURE 

"  It's  her  wish,  and  I  am  willing."  said  Phillotson,  with 
grave  reserve,  opposition  making  him  illogically  tenacious 
now.     "  A  great  piece  of  laxity  will  be  rectified." 

"  I  don't  believe  it.  She's  his  wife,  if  anybody's.  She's 
had  three  children  by  him,  and  he  loves  her  dearly ;  and 
it's  a  wicked  shame  to  egg  heron  to  this,  poor  little  quiv- 
ering thing!  She's  got  nobody  on  her  side.  The  one 
man  who'd  be  her  friend  the  obstinate  creature  won't  al- 
low to  come  near  her.  What  first  put  her  into  this  mood 
o' mind,  I  wonder.''" 

"  I  can't  tell.  Not  I,  certainly.  It  is  all  voluntary  on 
her  part.  Now  that's  all  I  have  to  say."  Phillotson  spoke 
stiffly.  "  You've  turned  round,  Mrs.  Edlin.  It  is  unseemly 
of  you  !" 

"  Well,  I  knowed  you'd  be  affronted  at  what  I  had  to 
say;  but  I  don't  mind  that.     The  truth's  the  truth." 

"  I'm  not  affronted,  Mrs.  Edlin.  You've  been  too  kind 
a  neighbor  for  that.  But  I  must  be  allowed  to  know  what's 
best  for  myself  and  Susanna.  I  suppose  you  won't  go  to 
church  with  us,  then  ?" 

"  No.  Be  hanged  if  I  can  !  .  .  .  I  don't  know  what  the 
times  be  coming  to !  Matrimony  have  growed  to  be  that 
serious  in  these  days  that  one  really  do  feel  afeared  to 
move  in  it  at  all.  In  my  time  we  took  it  more  careless, 
and  I  don't  know  that  we  was  any  the  worse  for  it !  When 
I  and  my  poor  man  were  jined  in  it  we  kept  up  the  junk- 
eting all  the  week,  and  drunk  the  parish  dry,  and  had  to 
borrow  Jialf  a  crown  to  begin  housekeeping  !" 

When  Mrs.  Edlin  had  gone  back  to  her  cottage  Phillot- 
son spoke  moodily.  "  I  don't  know  whether  I  ought  to 
do  it — at  any  rate,  quite  so  rapidly." 

"Why.?" 

"  If  she  is  really  compelling  herself  to  this  against  her 
instincts — merely  from  this  new  sense  of  duty  or  religion 
— I  ought,  perhaps,  to  let  her  wait  a  bit." 

"  Now  you've  got  so  far  you  ought  not  to  back  out  of  it. 
That's  my  opinion." 


AT   CHRISTMINSTER  AGAIN'  439 

"I  can't  very  well  put  it  ofif  now,  that's  true.  But  I  had  a 
qualm  when  she  gave  that  little  cry  at  sight  of  the  license." 

"  Now,  never  you  have  qualms,  old  boy.  I  mean  to  give 
her  away  to-morrow  morning,  and  you  mean  to  take  her. 
It  has  always  been  on  my  conscience  that  I  didn't  urge 
more  objections  to  your  letting  her  go,  and  now  we've  got 
to  this  stage  I  sha'n't  be  content  if  I  don't  help  you  to  set 
the  matter  right." 

^hijlotson  nodded,  and^_seein£_how^ stanch  his  friend 
was,  became  more  trank!  No  doubt  when  it  gets  known 
what  I've  done  1  shall  be  thought  a  soft  fool  by  many. 
But  they  don't  know  Sue  as  I  do.  Hers  is  such  a  straight 
and  open  nature  that  I  don't  think  she  has  ever  done  any- 
thing against  her  conscience.  The  fact  of  her  having  lived 
with  Fawley  goes  for  nothing.  At  the  time  she  left  me 
for  him  she  thought  she  was  quite  within  her  right.  Now 
she  thinks  otherwise." 

The  next  morning  came,  and  the  self-sacrifice  of  the 
woman  on  the  altar  of  what  she  was  pleased  to  call  her 
principles  was  acquiesced  in  by  these  two  friends,  each 
frorn  his  own  point  of  view.  Phillotson  went  across  to 
the  Widow  Edlin's  to  fetch  Sue  a  few  minutes  after  eight 
o'clock.  The  fog  of  the  previous  day  or  two  on  the  low- 
lands had  travelled  up  here  by  now,  and  the  trees  on  the 
green  caught  armfuls,  and  turned  them  into  showers  of 
big  drops.  The  bride  was  waiting,  ready — bonnet  and  all 
on.  She  had  never  in  her  life  looked  so  much  like  the 
lily  her  name  connoted  as  she  did  in  that  pallid  morning 
light.  Chastened,jwprld-weary,  remorseful,  the  strain  on 
her  nerves^TTad^  preyed  upon  her  flesh  and  bones,  and  she 
appeared  smaller  in  outline  than  she  had  formerly  done, 
though  Sue  had  not  been  a  large  woman  in  her  days  of 
rudest  health. 

"  t'romptT"  said  the  school-master,  magnanimously  tak- 
ing her  hand.  But  he  checked  his  impulse  to  kiss  her. 
remembering  her  start  of  yesterday,  which  unpleasantly 
lingered  in  his  mind. 


440  JUDE  THE   OBSCURE 

Gillingham  joined  them,  and  they  left  the  house,  Wid- 
ow Edlin  continuing  steadfast  in  her  refusal  to  assist  in 
the  ceremony. 

"  Where  is  the  church  ?"  said  Sue.  She  had  not  lived 
there  for  any  length  of  time  since  the  old  church  was 
pulled  down,  and  in  her  preoccupation  forgot  the  new 
one. 

"  Up  here,"  said  Phillotson  ;  and  presently  the  tower 
loomed  large  and  solemn  in  the  fog.  The  vicar  had  al- 
ready crossed  to  the  building,  and  when  they  entered  he 
said,  pleasantly,  "  We  almost  want  candles." 

"  You  do — wish  me  to  be  yours,  Richard  ?"  gasped  Sue, 
in  a  whisper. 

"Certainly,  dear;  above  all  things  in  the  world." 

Sue  said  no  more ;  and  for  the  second  or  third  time  he 
felt  he  was  not  quite  following  out  the  humane  instinct 
which  had  induced  him  to  let  her  go. 

There  they  stood,  five  altogether  :  the  parson,  the  clerk, 
the  couple,  and  Gillingham  ;  and  the  holy  ordinance  was 
resolemnized  forthwith.  In  the  nave  of  the  edifice  were 
two  or  three  villagers,  and  when  the  clergyman  came  to 
the  words,  "  What  God  hath  joined,"  a  woman's  voice  from 
among  these  was  heard  to  utter  audibly  : 

"  God  hath  jined  indeed  !" 

It  was  like  a  re-enactment  by  the  ghosts  of  their  former 
selves  of  the  similar  scene  which  had  taken  place  at  Mel- 
chester  years  before.  When  the  books  were  signed  the 
vicar  congratulated  the  husband  and  wife  on  having  per- 
formed a  noble  and  righteous  and  mutually  forgiving 
act.  "  All's  well  that  ends  well,"  he  said,  smiling.  "  May 
you  long  be  happy  together,  after  thus  having  been 
*  saved  as  by  fire.'  " 

They  came  down  the  nearly  empty  building,  and  crossed 
to  the  school  -  house.  Gillingham  wanted  to  get  home 
that  night,  and  left  early.  He,  too,  congratulated  the 
couple.  "  Now,"  he  said,  in  parting  from  Phillotson,  who 
walked  out  a  little  way,  "  I  shall  be  able  to  tell  the  people 


AT    CHRISTMINSTER   AGAIN  441 

in  your  native  place  a  good  round  tale  ;  and  they'll  all 
say  '  Well  done,'  depend  on  it." 

When  the  school-master  got  back  Sue  was  making  a 
pretence  of  doing  some  housewifery,  as  if  she  lived  there. 
But  she  seemed  timid  at  his  approach. 

"Of  course,  my  dear,  I  sha'n't  expect  to  intrude  upon 
your  personal  privacy  any  more  than  I  did  before,"  he 
said,  gravely.  "  It  is  for  our  good  socially  to  do  this,  and 
that's  its  justification,  if  it  was  not  my  reason. 

Sue  brightened  a  little. 


Ji  U^' 


/^     «  I  ^ 


VI 

The  place  was  the  door  of  Jude's  lodging  in  the  out- 
skirts of  Christminster  —  far  from  the  precincts  of  St. 
Silas's,  where  he  had  formerly  lived,  which  saddened  him 
to  sickness.  The  rain  was  coming  down.  A  woman  in 
shabby  black  stood  on  the  door-step  talking  to  Jude,  who 
held  the  door  in  his  hand. 

"  I  am  lonely,  destitute,  and  houseless — that's  what  I 
am  !  Father  has  turned  me  out-of-doors  after  borrowing 
every  penny  I'd  got,  to  put  it  into  his  business,  and  then 
accusing  me  of  laziness  when  I  was  only  waiting  for  a 
situation.  I  am  at  the  mercy  of  the  world  !  If  you  can't 
take  me  and  help  nie,  Jude,  I  must  go  to  the  workhouse,  or 
to  something  worse.  Only  just  now  two  undergraduates 
winked  at  me  as  I  came  along.  'Tis  hard  for  a  woman  to 
keep  virtuous  where  there's  so  many  young  men  !" 

The  woman  in  the  rain  who  spoke  thus  was  Arabella, 
the  evening  being  that  of  the  day  after  Sue's  remarriage 
with  Phillotson. 

"  I  am  sorry  for  you,  but  1  am  only  in  lodgings,"  said 
Jude,  coldly. 

"  Then  you  turn  me  away  ?" 

"  I'll  give  you  enough  to  get  food  and  lodging  for  a 
few  days." 

"  Oh,  but  can't  you  have  the  kindness  to  take  me  in  ?  I 
cannot  endure  going  to  a  public-house  to  lodge;  and  I 
am  so  lonely.     Please,  Jude,  for  old  times'  sake !" 

"No,  no,"  said  Jude,  hastily.  "  I  don't  want  to  be  re- 
minded of  those  things;  and  if  you  talk  about  them  I 
shall  not  help  you.  " 


AT   CHRISTMINSTER  AGAIN  443 

"  Then  I  suppose  I  must  go  !"  said  Arabella.  She  bent 
her  head  against  the  door-post,  and  began  sobbing. 

"The  house  is  full,"  said  Jude,  "and  I  have  only  a 
little  extra  room — not  much  more  than  a  closet — where  I 
keep  my  tools  and  templates  and  the  few  books  I  have 
left  !" 

"  That  would  be  a  palace  for  me  !" 

"There  is  no  bedstead  in  it." 

"  A  bit  of  a  bed  could  be  made  on  the  floor.  It  would 
be  good  enough  for  me." 

Unable  to  be  harsh  with  her,  and  not  knowing  what  to 
do,  Jude  called  the  man  who  let  the  lodgings,  and  said 
this  was  an  acquaintance  of  his  in  great  distress  for  want 
of  temporary  shelter. 

"You  may  remember  me  as  barmaid  at  The  Lamb  and 
Flag  formerly.''"  spoke  up  Arabella.  "My  father  has  in- 
sulted me  this  afternoon,  and  I've  left  him,  though  with- 
out a  penny." 

The  householder  said  he  could  not  recall  her  features. 
"But  still,  if  you  are  a  friend  of  Mr.  Fawley's,  we'll  do 
what  we  can  for  a  day  or  two — if  he'll  make  himself 
answerable." 

"  Yes,  yes,"  said  Jude.  "  She  has  really  taken  me  quite 
unawares,  but  I  should  wish  to  help  her  out  of  her  diffi- 
culty." And  an  arrangement  was  ultimately  come  to 
under  which  a  bed  was  to  be  thrown  down  in  Jude's  lum- 
ber-room, to  make  it  comfortable  for  Arabella  till  she 
could  get  out  of  the  strait  she  was  in  — not  by  her 
own  fault,  as  she  declared  —  and  return  to  her  father's 
again. 

While  they  were  waiting  for  this  to  be  done,  Arabella 
said  :  "  You  know  the  news,  I  suppose  ?" 

"  I  guess  what  you  mean,  but  I  know  nothing." 

"  I  had  a  letter  from  Anny  at  Alfredston  to-day.  She 
had  just  heard  that  the  wedding  was  to  be  yesterday, 
but  she  didn't  know  if  it  had  come  ofT." 

"I  don't  wish  to  talk  of  it." 


444  JUDE  THE  OBSCURE 

"  No,  no ;  of  course  you  don't.  Only  it  shows  what 
kind  of  woman — " 

"  Don't  speak  of  her,  1  say  !  She's  a  fool !— And  she's 
an  angel,  too,  poor  dear  !" 

"  If  it's  done,  he'll  have  a  chance  of  getting  back  to  his 
old  position,  by  everybody's  account,  so  Anny  says.  All 
his  well-wishers  will  be  pleased,  including  the  bishop  him- 
self." 

"  Do  spare  me,  Arabella." 

Arabella  was  duly  installed  in  the  little  attic,  and  at 
first  she  did  not  come  near  Jude  at  all.  She  went  to  and 
fro,  about  her  own  business,  which,  when  they  met  for  a 
moment  on  the  stairs  or  in  the  passage,  she  informed  him 
was  that  of  obtaining  another  place  in  the  occupation  she 
understood  best.  When  Jude  suggested  London  as  af- 
fording the  most  likely  opening  in  the  liquor-trade,  she 
shook  her  head.  "  No— the  temptations  are  too  many," 
she  said.  "  Any  humble  tavern  in  the  country  before  that 
for  me." 

On  the  Sunday  morning  following,  when  he  breakfasted 
later  than  on  other  days,  she  meekly  asked  him  if  she 
miaht  come  in  to  breakfast  with  him,  as  she  had  broken 
her  teapot,  and  could  not  replace  it  immediately,  the 
shops  being  shut. 

"  Yes,  if  you  like,"  he  said,  indifferently. 

While  they  sat  without  speaking  she  suddenly  observed  : 
"  You  seem  all  in  a  brood,  old  man.      I'm  sorry  for  you." 

"  I  am  all  in  a  brood." 

"  It  is  about  her,  I  know.  It's  no  business  of  mine,  but 
I  could  find  out  all  about  the  wedding— if  it  really  did 
take  place — if  you  wanted  to  know." 

"  How  could  you  ?" 

"  I  wanted  to  go  to  Alfredston  to  get  a  few  things  I 
left  there,  and  I  could  see  Anny,  who'll  be  sure  to  have 
heard  all  about  it,  as  she  has  friends  at  Marj'green." 

Jude  could  not  bear  to  acquiesce  in  this  proposal ;  but 
his  suspense  pitted  itself  against  his  discretion,  and  won 


AT   CHRISTMINSTER  AGAIN  445 

in  the  struggle.  "  You  can  ask  about  it  if  you  like,"  he 
said.  "  I've  not  heard  a  sound  from  there.  It  must  have 
been  very  private,  if — they  have  married." 

•'  I  am  afraid  I  haven't  enough  cash  to  take  me  there 
and  back,  or  I  should  have  gone  before.  I  must  wait  till 
I  have  earned  some." 

"  Oh — I  can  pay  the  journey  for  you,"  he  said,  impa- 
tiently. And  thus  his  suspense  as  to  Sue's  welfare,  and 
the  possible  marriage,  moved  him  to  despatch  for  intelli- 
gence the  last  emissary  he  would  have  thought  of  choos- 
ing deliberately. 

Arabella  went,  Jude  requesting  her  to  be  home  not 
later  than  by  the  seven  o'clock  train.  When  she  had  gone 
he  said  :  "  Why  should  I  have  charged  her  to  be  back  by 
a  particular  time  .•*  She's  nothing  to  me — nor  the  other, 
neither." 

But  having  finished  work,  he  could  not  help  going  to 
the  station  to  meet  Arabella,  dragged  thither  by  fever- 
ish haste  to  get  the  news  she  might  bring,  and  know  the 
worst.  Arabella  had  made  dimples  most  successfully  all 
the  way  home,  and  when  she  stepped  out  of  the  railway 
carriage  she  smiled.  He  merely  said  "  Well  ?"  with  the 
very  reverse  of  a  smile. 

"  They  are  married." 

"  Yes — of  course  they  are  !"  he  returned.  She  observed, 
however,  the  hard  strain  upon  his  lip  as  he  spoke. 

"Anny  says  she  has  heard  from  Belinda,  her  relation 
out  at  Marygreen,  that  it  was  very  sad,  and  curious." 

"  Flow  do  you  mean  sad  }  She  wanted  to  marry  him 
again,  didn't  she — and  he  her?" 

^'  Yes — that  was  it.  She  wanted  to  in  one  sense,  but 
not  in  the  other.  Mrs.  Edlin  was  much  upset  by  it  all, 
and  spoke  out  her  mind  at  Phillotson.  But  Sue  was  that 
excited  about  it  that  she  burned  her  best  embroidery, 
that  she'd  worn  with  you,  to  blot  you  out  entirely.  Well 
— if  a  woman  feels  like  it,  she  ought  to  do  it.  I  commend 
lier  for  it,  though  others  don't."     Arabella  sighed.     "  She 


446  JUDE  THE  OBSCURE 

felt  he  was  her  only  husband,  and  that  she  belonged  to 
nobody  else  in  the  sight  of  God  A'mighty  while  he  lived. 
Perhaps  another  woman  feels  the  same  about  herself, 
too  !"  Arabella  sighed  again. 

"  I  don't  want  any  cant !"  exclaimed  Jude. 

"  It  isn't  cant,"  said  Arabella.  "  I  feel  exactly  the  same 
as  she  !" 

He  closed  that  issue  by  remarking  abruptly  :  "  Well — 
now  I  know  all  I  wanted  to  know.  Many  thanks  for  your 
information.  I  am  not  going  back  to  my  lodgings  just 
yet."     And  he  left  her  straightway. 

In  his  misery  and  depression  Jude  walked  to  wellnigh 
every  spot  in  the  city  that  he  had  visited  with  Sue ;  thence 
he  did  not  know  whither,  and  then  thought  of  going 
home  to  his  usual  evening  meal.  But  having  all  the  vices 
of  his  virtues,  and  some  to  spare,  he  turned  into  a  public- 
house  for  the  first  time  during  many  months.  Among 
the  possible  consequences  of  her  marriage,  Sue  had  not 
dwelt  on  this. 

Arabella,  meanwhile,  had  gone  back.  The  evening 
passed,  and  Jude  did  not  return.  At  half-past  nine  Ara- 
bella herself  went  out,  first  proceeding  to  an  outlying  dis- 
trict near  the  river,  where  her  father  lived,  and  had  opened 
a  small  and  precarious  pork-shop  lately. 

"Well,"  she  said  to  him,  "for  all  your  rowing  me  that 
night,  I've  come  back,  for  I  have  something  to  tell  you. 
I  think  I  shall  get  married  and  settled  again.  Only  you 
must  help  me;  and  you  can  do  no  less,  after  what  I've 
stood  'ee." 

"  I'll  do  anything  to  get  thee  ofT  my  hands  !" 

"  Very  well.  I  am  now  going  to  look  for  my  young 
man.  He's  on  the  loose,  I'm  afraid,  and  I  must  get  him 
home.  All  I  want  you  to  do  to-night  is  not  to  fasten  the 
door,  in  case  I  should  want  to  sleep  here,  and  should  be 
late." 

"  I  thought  you'd  soon  get  tired  of  giving  yourself  airs 
and  keeping  away  !" 


AT   CHRISTMINSTER  AGAIN  447 

"  Well— don't  do  the  door.     That's  all  I  say." 

She  then  sallied  out  again,  and  first  hastening  back  to 
Jude's  to  make  sure  that  he  had  not  returned,  began  her 
search  for  him.  A  shrewd  guess  as  to  his  probable 
course  took  her  straight  to  the  tavern  which  Jude  had 
formerly  frequented,  and  where  she  had  been  barmaid  for 
a  brief  term.  She  had  no  sooner  opened  the  door  of  the 
"  Private  Bar  "than  her  eyes  fell  upon  him— sitting  in  the 
shade  at  the  back  of  the  compartment,  with  his  eyes  fixed 
on  the  floor  in  a  blank  stare.  He  was  drinking  nothing 
stronger  than  ale  just  then.  He  did  not  observe  her,  and 
she  entered  and  sat  beside  him. 

Jude  looked  up,  and  said,  without  surprise,  "You've 
come  to  have  something,  Arabella?  .  .  .  I'm  trying  to  for- 
get her;  that's  all !  But  I  can't;  and  I  am  going  home." 
She  saw  that  he  was  a  little  way  on  in  liquor,  but  only  a 
little  as  yet. 

"  I've  come  entirely  to  look  for  you,  dear  boy.  You 
are  not  well.  Now  you  must  have  something  better  than 
that."  Arabella  held  up  her  finger  to  the  barmaid.  "  You 
shall  have  a  liqueur  —  that's  better  fit  for  a  man  of  ed- 
ucation than  beer.  You  shall  have  maraschino,  or  cura- 
(;oa,  dry  or  sweet,  or  cherry  brandy.  I'll  treat  you,  poor 
chap !" 

"  I  don't  care  which  !  Say  cherry  brandy.  .  .  .  Sue  has 
served  me  badly,  very  badly.  I  didn't  expect  it  of  Sue! 
I  stuck  to  her,  and  she  ought  to  have  stuck  to  me.  I'd 
have  sold  my  soul  for  her  sake,  but  she  wouldn't  risk  hers 
a  jot  for  me.  To  save  her  own  .soul  she  lets  mine  go 
damn  !  .  .  .  But  it  isn't  her  fault,  poor  little  girl— I  am 
sure  it  isn't." 

How  Arabella  had  obtained  money  did  not  appear,  but 
she  ordered  a  liqueur  each,  and  paid  for  them.  When 
they  had  drunk  these  Arabella  suggested  another ;  and 
Jude  had  the  pleasure  of  being,  as  it  were,  personally  con- 
ducted through  the  varieties  of  spirituous  delectation  by 
one  who  knew  the  landmarks  well.     Arabella  kept  very 


448  JUDE   THE   OBSCURE 

considerably  in  the  rear  of  Jude  ;  but  though  she  only- 
sipped  where  he  drank,  she  took  as  much  as  she  could 
safely  take  without  losing  her  head — which  was  not  a  lit- 
tle, as  the  crimson  upon  her  countenance  showed. 

Her  tone  towards  him  to-night  was  uniformly  soothing 
and  cajoling;  and  whenever  he  said,  "  I  don't  care  what 
happens  to  me,"  a  thing  he  did  continually,  she  replied, 
"  But  I  do  very  much  !"  The  closing  hour  came,  and  they 
were  compelled  to  turn  out ;  whereupon  Ara.bella  put  her 
arm  round  his  waist,  and  guided  his  unsteady  footsteps. 

When  they  were  in  the  streets  she  said  :  "  I  don't  know 
what  our  landlord  will  say  to  my  bringing  you  home  in 
this  state.  I  expect  we  are  fastened  out,  so  that  he'll 
have  to  come  down  and  let  us  in." 

"  I  don't  know — I  don't  know." 

"That's  the  worst  of  not  having  a  home  of  your  own. 
I  tell  you,  Jude,  what  we  had  best  do.  Come  round  to 
my  father's — I  made  it  up  with  him  a  bit  to-day.  I  can 
let  you  in,  and  nobody  will  see  you  at  all ;  and  by  to- 
morrow morning  you'll  be  all  right." 

"Anything  —  anywhere,"  replied  Jude.  "What  the 
devil  does  it  matter  to  me  ?" 

"  They  went  along  together,  like  any  other  fuddling 
couple,  her  arm  still  round  his  waist,  and  his,  at  last,  round 
hers  ;  though  with  no  amatory  intent,  but  merely  because 
he  was  weary,  unstable,  and  in  need  of  support. 

"This — is  th'  Martyrs' — burning-place,"  he  stammered, 
as  they  dragged  across  a  broad  street.  "  I  remember — in 
old  Fuller's  Holy  State — and  I  am  reminded  of  it — by 
our  passing  by  here — old  Fuller  in  his  Holy  State  says 
that  at  the  burning  of  Ridley,  Doctor  Smith  —  preached 
sermon,  and  took  as  his  text  '  Though  I  give  vty  body  to 
be  burned,  and  have  not  charity,  it  profiteth  me  nothing.' 
Often  think  of  it  as  I  pass  here.     Ridley  was  a — " 

"  Yes.  Exactly.  Very  thoughtful  of  you,  deary,  even 
though  it  hasn't  much  to  do  with  our  present  business." 

"  Why,  yes  it  has  !     Fm  giving  my  body  to  be  burned  ! 


^' 


AT   CHRISTiMINSTER    AGAIN  449 

But— ah— you  don't  understand  !— it  wants  Sue  to  under- 
stand such  things !     And  I  was  her  seducer — poor  little 
girl!     And  she's  gone  —  and  I  don't  care  about  myself! 
Do  what  you  like  with  me  !  .  .  .  And  yet  she  did  it  for  ^,W^    ^ 
conscience'  sake,  poor  little  Sue  !"  rtf^ 

•'Hang  her! — I   mean,  I   think    she    was    right,"   hie-     n    ^/^ 
coughed  Arabella.     "  I've  my  feelings  too,  like  her;  and  I 
feel  I  belong  to  you  in  Heaven's  eye,  and  to  nobody  else, 
till  death  us  do  part !     It  is— hie — never  too  late — hie — to     » 
mend  !"  C^^ 

They  had  reached  lier  father's  house,  and  she  softly  un- 
fastened the  door,  groping  about  for  a  light  within. 

The  circumstances  were  not  altogether  unlike  those  of 
tlieir  entry  into  the  cottage  at  Cresscombe,  such  a  long 
time  before.  Nor  were  perhaps  Arabella's  motives.  Bui 
Jude  did  not  think  of  that,  though  she  did. 

"  I  can't  find  the  matciies,  dear,"  she  said,  when  she  had 
fastened  up  the  door.  •' But  never  mind  — this  way.  As 
quiet  as  you  can,  please.  " 

"  It  is  as  dark  as  pitch,"  said  Jude. 

"  Give  me  your  hand,  and  I'll  lead  you.  That's  it.  Just 
sit  down  here,  and  I'll  pull  od  your  boots.  I  don't  want 
to  wake  him." 

•'  Who  ?" 

"  Father.     He'd  make  a  row,  perhaps." 

She  pulled  oflf  his  boots.  "  Now,"  she  whispered,  "take 
hold  of  me — never  mind  your  weight.  Now — first  stair, 
second  stair — " 

"But  —  are  we  out  in  our  old  house  by  Marygreen  .''" 
asked  the  stupefied  Jude.  "  I  haven't  been  inside  it  for 
years  till  now  1  Hey  ?  And  where  are  my  books  .'  That's 
what  I  want  to  know  ?" 

"  We  arc  at  my  house,  dear,  where  there's  nobody  to 
spy  out  how  ill  you  are.     Now — third  stair,  fourth  stair — 
that's  it.     Now  we  shall  get  on." 
29 


VII 

Arabella  was  preparing  breakfast  in  the  down-stairs 
room  of  this  small,  recently  hired  tenement  of  her  fa- 
ther's. She  put  her  head  into  the  little  pork-shop  in 
front,  and  told  Mr.  Donn  it  was  ready.  Donn,  endeavor- 
ing to  look  like  a  master  pork-butcher,  in  a  greasy  blue 
blouse,  and  with  a  strap  round  his  waist  from  which  a 
steel  dangled,  came  in  promptly. 

"You  must  mind  the  shop  this  morning,"  he  said, 
casually.  "  I've  to  go  and  get  some  inwards  and  half  a 
pig  from  Lumsdon,  and  to  call  elsewhere.  If  you  live 
here  you  must  put  your  shoulder  to  the  wheel,  at  least 
till  I  get  the  business  started  !" 

"  Well,  for  to-day  I  can't  say."  She  looked  deedily 
into  his  face.     "  I've  got  a  prize  up-stairs." 

"Oh!— What's  that?" 

"  A  husband — almost." 

"No!" 

"Yes.     It's  Jude.     He's  come  back  to  me." 

"  Your  old  original  one  ?     Well,  I'm  damned  !" 

"  Well,  I  always  did  like  him,  that  I  will  say." 

"  But  how  does  he  come  to  be  up  there  ?"  said  Donn, 
humor-struck,  and  nodding  to  the  ceiling. 

"  Don't  ask  inconvenient  questions,  father.  What 
we've  to  do  is  to  keep  him  here  till  he  and  I  are — as  we 
were." 

"  How  was  that?" 

"  Married." 

"  Ah.  .  .  .  Well,  it  is  the  rummest  thing  I  ever  heard  of 
— marrying  an  old  husband  again,  and  so  much  new  blood 


AT   CHRISTMINSTER  AGAIN  45 1 

in  the  world  !     He's  no  catch,  to  my  thinking.     I'd  have 
had  a  new  one  while  I  was  about  it." 

"  It  isn't  rum  for  a  woman  to  want  her  old  husband 
back,  for^respectability,  though  for  a  man  to  want  his  old 
wife  back — well,  perhaps  it  is  funny,  rather  !"  And  Ara- 
bella was  suddenly  seized  with  a  fit  of  loud  laughter,  in 
which  her  father  joined  more  moderately. 

"Be  civil  to  him,  and  I'll  do  the  rest,"  she  said,  when 
she  had  recovered  seriousness.  "  He  told  me  this  morn- 
ing that  his  head  ached  fit  to  burst,  and  he  hardly  seemed 
to  know  where  he  was.  And  no  wonder,  considering  how 
he  mixed  his  drink  last  night.  We  must  keep  him  jolly 
and  cheerful  here  for  a  day  or  two,  and  not  let  him  go 
back  to  his  lodging.  Whatever  you  advance  I'll  pay  back 
to  you  again.  But  I  must  go  up  and  see  how  he  is  n«w, 
poor  deary." 

Arabella  ascended  the  stairs,  softly  opened  the  door  of 
the  first  bedroom,  and  peeped  in.  Finding  that  her  shorn  hfJ}^ 
Samson  was  asleep,  she  entered  to  the  bedside  and  stood  *"^^ 
regardincr  him.  The  fevered  flush  on  his  face  from  the 
debauch  of  the  previous  evening  lessened  the  fragility  of 
his  ordinary  appearance,  and  his  long  lashes,  dark  brows 
and  curly  black  hair  and  beard  against  the  white  pillow 
completed  the  physiognomy  of  one  whom  Arabella,  as  a 
woman  of  rank  passions,  still  felt  it  worth  while  to  re- 
capture— highly  important  to  recapture  as  a  woman  strait- 
ened both  in  means  and  in  reputation.  Her  ardent  gaze 
seemed  to  affect  him ;  his  quick  breathing  became  sus- 
pended, and  he  opened  his  eyes. 

"  How  are  you  now,  dear  ?"  said  she.    "  It  is  I — Arabella." 

"  Ah  ! — where —  Oh  yes,  I  remember !  You  gave  me 
shelter.  ...  I  am  stranded — ill — demoralized — damn  bad  ! 
That's  what  I  am  !" 

"  Then  do  stay  there.  There's  nobody  in  the  house  but 
father  and  me,  and  you  can  rest  till  you  are  thoroughly 
well.  I'll  tell  them  at  the  stone -works  that  you  are 
knocked  up." 


452  JUDE   THE   OBSCURE 

"  I  wonder  what  they  are  thinking  at  the  lodj^ings." 

"  I'll  go  round  and  explain.  Perhaps  you  had  better 
let  me  pay  up,  or  they'll  think  we've  run  away." 

"  Yes.     You'll  find  enough  money  in  my  pocket  there." 

Quite  indifferent,  and  shutting  his  eyes  because  he  could 
not  bear  the  daylight  in  his  throbbing  eyeballs,  Jude 
seemed  to  doze  again.  Arabella  took  his  purse,  softly 
left  the  room,  and,  putting  on  her  out-door  things,  went 
off  to  the  lodgings  she  and  he  had  quitted  the  evening 
before. 

Scarcely  half  an  hour  had  elapsed  ere  she  reappeared 
round  the  corner,  walking  beside  a  lad  wheeling  a  truck, 
on  which  were  piled -all  Jude's  household  possessions,  and 
also  the  few  of  Arabella's  things  which  she  had  taken  to 
the  lodging  for  her  short  sojourn  there.  Jude  was  in  such 
physical  pain  from  his  unfortunate  break -down  of  the 
previous  night,  and  in  such  mental  pain  from  the  loss  of 
Sue  and  from  having  yielded  in  his  half-somnolent  state 
to  Arabella,  that  when  he  saw  his  few  chattels  unpacked 
and  standing  before  his  eyes  in  this  strange  bedroom,  in- 
termixed with  woman's  apparel,  he  scarcely  considered 
how  they  had  come  there,  or  what  their  coming  signal- 
ized. 

"  Now,"  said  Arabella  to  her  father,  down  -  stairs,  "  we 
must  keep  plenty  of  good  liquor  going  in  the  house  these 
next  few  days.  I  know  his  nature,  and  if  he  once  gets 
into  that  fearfully  low  state  that  he  does  get  into  some- 
times, he'll  never  do  the  honorable  thing  by  me  in  this 
world,  and  I  shall  be  left  in  the  lurch.  He  must  be  kept 
cheerful.  He  has  a  little  money  in  the  savings-bank,  and 
he  has  given  me  his  purse  to  pay  for  anything  neces- 
sary. Well,  that  will  be  the  license;  for  I  must  have  that 
ready  at  hand,  to  catch  him  the  moment  he's  in  the  hu- 
mor. You  must  pay  for  the  liquor.  A  few  friends  and 
a  quiet,  convivial  party  would  be  the  thing  if  we  could  get 
it  up.     It  would  advertise  the  shop,  and  help  me  too." 

"  That  can  be  got  up  easy  enough  by  anybody  who'll 


AT    CHRISTMINSTER   AGAIN  453 

afford  victuals  and  drink.  .  .  ,  Well,  yes — it  would  adver- 
tise the  shop — that's  true." 

Three  days  later,  when  Jude  had  recovered  somewhat 
from  the  fearful  throbbing  of  his  eyes  and  brain,  but  was 
still  considerabl}'^  confused  in  his  mind  by  what  had  been 
supplied  to  him  by  Arabella  during  the  interval — to  keep 
him  jolly,  as  she  expressed  it  -the  little  convivial  gather- 
ing suggested  by  her,  to  wind  Jude  up  to  the  striking- 
point,  took  place. 

Donn  iiad  only  just  opened  his  miserable  little  pork- 
and-sausage  shop,  which  had  as  yet  scarce  any  customers; 
nevertheless,  that  party  advertised  it  well,  and  the  Dcnns 
acquired  a  real  notoriety  among  a  certain  class  in  Christ- 
minster  who  knew  not  the  colleges,  nor  their  works,  nor 
tiieir  ways.  Jude  was  asked  if  he  could  suggest  any 
guest  in  addition  to  those  named  by  Arabella  and  her 
father,  and  in  a  saturnine  humor  of  perfect  recklessness 
mentioned  Uncle  Joe,  and  Stagg,  and  the  decayed  auc- 
tioneer, and  others  whom  he  remembered  as  having  been 
frequenters  of  tiie  well-known  tavern  during  his  bout 
therein  years  before.  He  also  suggested  Freckles  and 
Bower  o'  Bliss.  Arabella  took  him  at  his  word  so  far  as 
the  men  went,  but  drew  the  line  at  the  ladies. 

Another  man  they  knew,  Tinker  Taylor,  though  he 
lived  in  the  same  street,  was  not  invited  ;  but  as  he  went 
homeward  from  a  late  job  on  the  evening  of  the  part)', 
lie  had  occasion  to  call  at  the  shop  for  trotters.  There 
were  none  in,  but  he  was  promised  some  the  next  morn- 
ing. While  making  his  inquiry  Taylor  glanced  into  the 
back  room,  and  saw  the  guests  sitting  round,  card-play- 
ing and  drinking  and  otlierwise  enjc^ying  themselves  at 
Uonn's  expense.  He  went  home  to  bed,  and  on  his  way 
out  next  morning  wondered  how  the  party  went  off.  He 
thought  it  hardly  worth  while  to  call  at  the  shop  for  his 
]irovisions  at  that  hour,  Donn  and  his  daughter  being 
probably  not  up  if  they  caroused  late  the  night  before. 
However,  he  found  in  passing  that  the  door  was  open, 


} 


454  JUDE  THE  OBSCURE 

and  he  could  hear  voices  within,  though  the  shutters  of 
the  meat-stall  were  not  down.  He  went  and  tapped  at 
the  sitting-room  door,  and  opened  it. 

"  Well,  to  be  sure !"  he  said,  astonished. 

Hosts  and  guests  were  sitting  card-playing,  smoking, 
and  talking,  precisely  as  he  had  left  them  eleven  hours 
earlier;  the  gas  was  burning  and  the  curtains  drawn, 
though  it  had  been  broad  daylight  for  two  hours  out-of- 
doors. 

"  Yes  !"  cried  Arabella,  laughing,  "  here  we  are,  just  the 
same.  We  ought  to  be  ashamed  of  ourselves,  oughtn't 
we.''  But  it  is  a  sort  of  house-warming,  you  see,  and  our 
friends  are  in  no  hurry.  Come  in,  Mr.  Taylor,  and  sit 
down." 

The  tinker,  or,  rather,  reduced  ironmonger,  was  noth- 
ing loath,  and  entered  and  took  a  seat.  "  I  shall  lose  a 
quarter,  but  never  mind,"  he  said.  "  Well,  really,  I  could 
hardly  believe  my  eyes  when  I  looked  in  !  It  seemed  as  if 
I  was  flung  back  again  into  last  night  all  of  a  sudden." 

"  So  you  are.     Pour  out  for  Mr.  Taylor." 

He  now  perceived  that  she  was  sitting  beside  Jude,  her 
arm  being  round  his  waist.  Jude,  like  the  rest  of  the 
company,  bore  on  his  face  the  signs  of  how  deeply  he  had 
been  indulging. 

"Well,  we've  been  waiting  for  certain  legal  hours  to  ar- 
rive, to  tell  the  truth,"  she  continued,  bashfully,  and  mak- 
ing her  spirituous  crimson  look  as  much  like  a  maiden 
blush  as  possible.  "Jude  and  I  have  decided  to  make  up 
matters  between  us  by  tying  the  knot  again,  as  we  find 
we  can't  do  without  one  another,  after  all.  So,  as  a  bright 
notion,  we  agreed  to  sit  on  till  it  was  late  enough,  and  go 
and  do  it  off-hand." 

Jude  seemed  to  pay  no  great  heed  to  what  she  was  an- 
nouncing, or,  indeed,  to  anything  whatever.  The  entrance 
of  Taylor  infused  fresh  spirit  into  the  company,  and  they 
remained  sitting,  till  Arabella  whispered  to  her  father: 
"  Now  we  may  as  well  go." 


AT   CHRISTMINSTER  AGAIN  455 

"  But  the  parson  don't  know." 

"  Yes,  I  told  him  last  night  that  we  might  come  between 
eight  and  nine,  as  there  were  reasons  of  decency  for  doing 
it  as  early  and  quiet  as  possible,  on  account  of  it  being 
our  second  marriage,  which  might  make  people  curious 
to  look  on  if  they  knew.     He  highly  approved." 

"  Oh,  very  well ,  I'm  ready,"  said  her  father,  getting  up 
and  shaking  himself. 

"  Now,  old  darling,"  she  said  to  Jude,  "come  along,  as 
you  promised." 

"When  did  I  promise  anything?"  asked  he,  whom  she 
had  made  so  tipsy  by  her  special  knowledge  of  that  line 
of  business  as  almost  to  have  made  him  sober  again— or 
to  seem  so  to  those  who  did  not  know  him. 

"Why,"  said  Arabella.  afTecting  dismay,  "you've  prom- 
ised to  marry  me  several  times  as  we've  sat  here  to- 
night.    These  gentlemen  have  heard  you." 

"  I  don't  remember  it,"  said  Jude,  doggedly.  "  There's 
only  one  woman — but  I  won't  mention  her  in  this  Ca- 
pharnaum  !" 

Arabella  looked  towards  her  father.  "  Now,  Mr.  Faw- 
iey,  be  honorable,"  said  Donn.  "  You  and  my  daughter 
have  been  living  here  together  these  three  or  four  days, 
quite  on  the  understanding  that  you  were  going  to  marry 
her.  Of  course  I  shouldn't  have  had  such  goings-on  in 
my  house  if  I  hadn't  understood  that.  As  a  point  of 
honor  you  must  do  it  now." 

"  Don't  say  anything  against  my  honor  !"  enjoined  Jude, 

hotly,  standing  up.     "I'd   marry  the  W of  Babylon 

rather  than  do  anything  dishonorable  !  No  reflection  on 
you,  my  dear.  It  is  a  mere  rhetorical  figure— what  they 
call  in  the  books,  hyperbole." 

"  Keep  your  figures  for  your  debts  to  friends  who  shelter 
you,"  said  Donn. 

"  If  I  am  bound  in  honor  to  marry  her — as  I  suppose  I 
am — though  how  I  came  to  be  here  with  her  I  know  no 
more  than  a    dead  man  —  marry  her  I  will,  so  help  me 


456  JUDE  THE   OBSCURE 

God  !  I  have  never  behaved  dishonorably  to  a  woman 
or  to  any  living  thing.  I  am  not  a  man  who  wants  to 
save  himself  at  the  expense  of  the  weaker  among  us !" 

"There — nevermind  him,  deary,"  said  she,  putting  her 
cheek  against  Jude's.  "  Come  up  and  wash  your  face,  and 
just  put  yourself  tidy,  and  of!  we'll  go.  Make  it  up  with 
father." 

They  shook  hands.  Jude  went  up-stairs  with  her,  and 
soon  came  down  looking  tidy  and  calm.  Arabella,  too, 
had  hastily  arranged  herself,  and,  accompanied  by  Donn, 
away  they  went. 

"  Don't  go,"  she  said  to  the  guests  at  parting.  "  I've 
told  the  little  maid  to  get  the  breakfast  while  we  are 
gone ;  and  when  we  come  back  we'll  all  have  some.  A 
good  strong  cup  of  tea  will  set  everybody  right  for  going 
home." 

When  Arabella,  Jude,  and  Donn  had  disappeared  on 
their  matrimonial  errand  the  assembled  guests  yawned 
themselves  wider  awake,  and  discussed  the  situation  with 
great  interest.  Tinker  Taylor,  being  the  most  sober,  rea- 
soned the  most  lucidly. 

"  I  don't  wish  to  speak  against  friends,"  he  said,  "  but 
it  do  seem  a  rare  curiosity  for  a  couple  to  marry  over 
again  !  If  they  couldn't  get  on  the  first  time  when  their 
minds  were  limp,  they  won't  the  second,  by  my  reckoning." 

"  Do  you  think  he'll  do  it  ?" 

"  He's  been  put  upon  his  honor  by  the  woman,  so  he 
med." 

"  He'd  hardly  do  it  straight  off  like  this.  He's  got  no 
license  nor  anything." 

"  She's  got  that,  bless  you.  Didn't  you  hear  her  say  so 
to  her  father  ?" 

"  Well,"  said  Tinker  Taylor,  relighting  his  pipe  at  the 
gas-jet,  "take  her  all  together,  limb  by  limb,  she's  not 
such  a  bad-looking  piece — particular  by  candle-light.  To 
be  sure,  halfpence  that  have  been  in  circulation  can't  be 


AT   CHRISTMINSTER    AGAIN  457 

expected  to  look  like  new  ones  from  the  Mint.  But  for 
a  woman  that's  been  knocking  about  the  four  hemispheres 
for  some  time,  she's  passable  enough.  A  little  bit  thick 
in  the  flitch,  perhaps;  but  1  like  a  woman  that  a  puflf  o' 
wind  won't  blow  down." 

Their  eves  followed  the  mov^ements  of  the  little  girl  as 
she  spread  the  breakfast-cloth  on  the  table  they  had  been 
using,  without  wiping  up  the  slops  of  the  liquor.  The 
curtains  were  undrawn,  and  the  expression  of  the  house 
made  to  look  like  morning.  Some  of  the  guests,  how- 
ever, fell  asleep  in  their  chairs.  One  or  two  went  to  the 
door,  and  gazed  along  the  street  more  than  once.  Tinker 
Taylor  was  the  chief  of  these,  and  after  a  time  he  came 
in  with  a  leer  on  his  face. 

"  By  Gad,  they  are  coming !     I  think  the  deed's  done  !" 

"No,"  said  Uncle  Joe,  following  him  in.  "Take  my 
word,  he  turned  rusty  at  the  last  minute.  They  are  walk- 
ing in  a  very  onusual  way  ;  and  that's  the  meaning  of  it  I" 

They  waited  in  silence  till  the  wedding-party  could  be 
heard  entering  the  house.  First  into  the  room  came  Ara- 
bella, boisterously  ;  and  her  face  was  enough  to  show  that 
her  strategy  had  succeeded. 

"Mrs.  Fawley,  I  presume  .•*"  said  Tinker  Taylor,  with 
mock  courtesy. 

"Certainly.  Mrs.  Fawley  again,"  replied  Arabella, 
blandly,  pulling  off  her  glove  and  holding  out  her  left 
hand.  "  There's  the  padlock,  see  !  .  .  .  Well,  he  was  a  very 
nice,  gentlemanly  man  indeed  —  I  mean  the  clergyman. 
He  said  to  me,  as  gentle  as  a  babe,  when  all  was  done  : 
'  Mrs.  Fawley,  I  congratulate  you  heartily,'  he  says.  '  For 
having  heard  your  history,  and  that  of  your  husband,  I 
think  you  have  both  done  the  jdiilvt  and  proper  thing. 
And  for  your  past  errors  as  a  wife,  and  his  as  a  husband, 
I  think  you  ought  now  to  be  forgiven  by  the  world,  as 
you  have  forgiven  each  other,'  says  he.  Yes  ;  he  was  a 
very  nice,  gentlemanly  man.  'The  church  don't  recog- 
nize divorce  in  her  dogma,  strictly  speaking,"   he   says; 


r^~ 


458  JUDE  THE   OBSCURE 

'  and  bear  in  mind  the  words  of  the  Service  in  your  goings 
out  and  your  comings  in  :  What  God  hath  joined  together 
let  no  man  put  asunder.'  Yes;  he  was  a  very  nice,  gen- 
tlemanly man.  .  .  .  But  Jude,  my  dear,  you  were  enough 
to  make  a  cat  laugh  !  You  walked  that  straight,  and  held 
yourself  that  steady,  that  one  would  have  thought  you 
were  going  'prentice  to  a  judge  ;  though  I  knew  you  were 
seeing  double  all  the  time,  from  the  way  you  fumbled  with 
my  finger." 

"  I  said  I'd  do  anything  to — save  a  woman's  honor," 
muttered  Jude,  "  and  I've  done  it !" 

"  Well,  now,  old  deary,  come  along  and  have  some 
breakfast." 

"  I  want — some — more  whiskey,"  said  Jude,  stolidly. 

"  Nonsense,  dear.  Not  now  I  There's  no  more  left. 
The  tea  will  take  the  muddle  out  of  our  heads,  and  we 
shall  be  as  fresh  as  larks." 

"All  right.  I've — married  you.  She  said  I  ought  to 
marry  you  again,  and  I  have  straightway.  It  is  true  re- 
ligion!     Ha — ha— ha!"  _       ^,    '^ 


VIII 


Michaelmas  came  and  passed,  and  Jude  and  his  wife, 
who  had  lived  but  a  short  time  in  her  father's  house  after 
their  marriage,  were  in  lodgings  on  the  top  floor  of  a  house 
nearer  to  the  centre  of  the  city. 

He  had  done  a  few  days'  work  during  the  two  or  three 
months  since  the  event,  but  his  health  had  been  indiffer- 
ent, and  it  was  now  precarious.  He  was  sitting  in  an  arm- 
chair before  the  fire,  and  coughed  a  good  deal. 

"I've  got  a  bargain  for  my  trouble  in  marrying  thee 
over  again  !"  Arabella  was  saying  to  him.  "  I  shall  have 
to  keep  'ee  entirely — that's  what  'twill  come  to  I  I  shall 
have  to  make  black-pot  and  sausages,  and  hawk  'em  about 
the  street,  all  to  support  an  invalid  husband  I'd  no  busi- 
ness to  be  saddled  with  at  all.  Why  didn't  you  keep  your 
health,  deceiving  one  like  this.^  You  were  well  enough 
when  I  married  you  !" 

"Ah,  yes!"  said  he,  laughing  acridly.  "I  have  been 
thinking  of  my  foolish  feeling  about  the  pig  you  and  I 
killed  during  our  first  marriage.  I  feel  now  that  the  great- 
est mercy  that  could  be  vouchsafed  to  me  would  be  that 
something  should  serve  me  as  I  served  that  animal." 

This  was  the  sort  of  discourse  that  went  on  between 
them  every  day  now.  The  landlord  of  the  lodging,  who 
had  heard  that  they  were  a  queer  couple,  had  doubted  if 
they  were  married  at  all,  especially  as  he  had  seen  Ara- 
bella kiss  Jude  one  evening  when  she  had  taken  a  little 
cordial ;  and  he  was  about  to  give  them  notice  to  quit,  till 
by  chance  overhearing  her  one  night  haranguing  Jude  in 
rattling  terms,  and  ultimately  flinging  a  shoe  at  his  head. 


460  JUDE  THE   OBSCURE 

he  recognized  the  note  of  ordinary  wedlock  ;  and  conclud- 
ing that  they  must  be  respectable,  said  no  more. 

Jude  did  not  get  any  better,  and  one  day  he  requested 
Arabella,  with  considerable  hesitation,  to  execute  a  com- 
mission for  him.    She  asked  him,  indifferently,  what  it  was. 

"  To  write  to  Sue,." 

"  What  in  the  name — do  you  want  me  to  write  to  her 
for.'" 

"  To  ask  how  she  is,  and  if  she'll  come  to  see  me,  be- 
cause I'm  ill,  and  should  like  to  see  her — once  again." 

"  It  is  like  you  to  insult  a  lawful  wife  by  asking  such  a 
thing !" 

"  It  is  just  in  order  not  to  insult  you  that  I  ask  you  to 
do  it.  You  know  I  love  Sue.  I  don't  wisli  to  mince  the 
matter — there  stands  the  fact :  I  love  her.  I  could  find  a 
dozen  ways  of  sending  a  letter  to  her  without  your  knowl- 
edge. But  I  wish  to  be  quite  above-board  with  you  and 
with  her  husband.  A  message  through  you  asking  her  to 
come  is  at  least  free  from  any  odor  of  intrigue.  If  she 
retains  any  of  her  old  nature  at  all,  she'll  come." 

"  You've  no  respect  for  marriage  whatever,  or  its  rights 
and  duties !" 

"  Wha^t  does  it  matter  what  my  opinions  are — a  wretch 
like  me  !^  Can  it  matter  to  anybody  in  the  world  who 
comes  to  see  me  for  half  an  hour — here  with  one  foot  in 
the  grave  !  .  .  .  Come,  please  write,  Arabella !"  he  pleaded. 
"  Repay  my  candor  by  a  little  generosity !" 

"  I  should  think  not !" 

"  Not  just  once.-*  Oh,  do!"  He  felt  that  his  physical 
weakness  had  taken  away  all  his  dignity. 

"  What  do  you  want  her  to  know  how  you  are  for  ? 
She  don't  want  to  see  'ee.  She's  the  rat  that  forsoqk  the 
sinking  ship  !"  v,^ 

"  Don't,  don't !" 

"And  I  stuck  to  un  —  the  more  fool  I!  Have  that 
strumpet  in  the  house,  indeed  !" 

Almost  as  soon  as  the  words  were  spoken  Jude  sprang 


AT   CHRISTMINSTER   AGAIN  461 

from  the  chair,  and  before  Arabella  knew  where  she  was 
he  had  her  on  her  back  upon  a  little  couch  which  stood 
there,  he  kneeling  above  her. 

"  Say  another  word  of  that  sort,"  he  whispered,  "  and 
I'll  kill  you — here  and  now  I  I've  everything  to  gain  by 
it — my  own  death  not  being  the  least  part.  So  don't 
think  there's  no  meaning  in  what  I  say  I" 

"  What  do  you  want  me  to  do  ?"  gasped  Arabella. 

"  Promise  never  to  speak  of  her!  " 

"  Very  well.     I  do." 

"  I  take  your  word,"  he  said,  scornfully,  as  he  loosened 
her.     "  But  what  it  is  worth  I  can't  say." 

"  You  couldn't  kill  the  pig,  but  you  could  kill  me !" 

"Ah — there  you  have  me!  No,  I  couldn't  kill  you — 
even  in  a  passion.     Taunt  away  !" 

He  then  began  coughing  very  much,  and  she  estimated 
his  life  with  an  appraiser's  eye  as  he  sank  back  ghastly 
pale.  "  I'll  sertd  for  her,"  Arabella  murmured,  "  if  you'll 
agree  to  my  being  in  the  room  with  you  all  the  time  she's 
here." 

The  softer  side  of  his  nature,  the  desire  to  see  Sue, 
made  him  unable  to  resist  the  ofler  even  now,  provoked  as 
he  had  been ;  and  he  replied,  breathlessly,  "  Yes,  I  agree. 
Only  send  for  her." 

In  the  evening  he  inquired  if  she  had  written. 

"Yes,"  she  said  ;  "  I  wrote  a  pote  telling  her  you  were 
ill,  and  asking  her  to  come  to-morrow  or  the  day  after. 
I  haven't  posted  it  yet." 

The  next  day  Judc  wondered  if  she  really  did  post  it, 
but  would  not  ask  her;  and  foolish  Hope,  that  lives  on  a 
drop  and  a  crumb,  made  him  restless  with  expectation. 
He  knew  the  times  of  the  possible  trains,  and  listened  on 
each  occasion  for  sounds  of  her. 

She  did  not  come  ;  but  Jude  would  not  address  Ara- 
bella again  thereon.  He  hoped  and  expected  all  the  next 
day,  but  no  Sue  appeared  ;  neither  was  there  any  note  of 
reply.     Then  Jude  decided  in  the  privacy  of  his  mind 


462  JUDE   THE   OBSCURE 

that  Arabella  had  never  posted  hers,  although  she  had 
written  it.  There  was  something  in  her  manner  which 
told  it.  His  physical  weakness  was  such  that  he  shed 
tears  at  the  disappointment  wlicn  she  was  not  there  to 
see.  His  suspicions  were,  in  fact,  well  founded.  Arabella, 
like  other  nurses,  thought  that  your  duty  towards  your 
invalid  was  to  pacify  him  by  any  means  short  of  really 
acting  upon  his  fancies. 

He  never  said  another  word  to  her  about  his  wish  or 
his  conjecture.  A  silent,  undiscerned  resolve  grew  up  in 
him,  which  gave  him,  if  not  strength,  stability  and  calm. 
One  mid-day  when, after  an  absence  of  two  hours,  she  came 
into  the  room,  she  beheld  the  chair  empty. 

Down  she  flopped  on  the  bed,  and,  sitting,  meditated. 
"  Now,  where  the  devil  is  my  man  gone  to  !"  she  said. 

A  driving  rain  from  the  northeast  had  been  falling  with 
more  or  less  intermission  all  the  morning,  and  looking 
from  the  window  at  the  dripping  spouts  it  seemed  impos- 
sible to  believe  that  any  sick  man  would  have  ventured 
out  to  almost  certain  death.  Yet  a  conviction  possessed 
Arabella  that  he  had  gone  out,  and  it  became  a  certainty 
when  she  had  searched  the  house.  "  If  he's  such  a  fool, 
let  him  be  !"  she  said.     "  I  can  do  no  more." 

Jude  was  at  that  moment  in  a  railway  train  that  was 
drawing  near  to  Alfredston,  oddly  swathed,  pale  as  a  mon- 
umental figure  in  alabaster,  and  much  stared  at  by  other 
passengers.  An  hour  later  his  thin  form,  in  the  long 
great-coat  and  blanket  he  had^come  with,  but  without  an 
umbrella,  could  have  been  seeh-^walking  along  the  five- 
mile  road  to  Marygreen.  On  his  face  showed  the  deter- 
mined purpose  that  alone  sustained  him,  but  to  which  his 
weakne^  aftordcd  a  sorry  foundation.  By  the  up-hill  walk 
he  was  quite  blown,  but  he  pressed  on  ;  and  at  half-past 
three  o'clock  stood  by  the  familiar  well  at  Marygreen. 
The  rain  was  keeping  everybody  in-doors  ;  Jude  crossed 
the  green  to  the  church  without  observation,  and  found 
the  building  open.     Here  he  stood,  looking  forth  at  the 


AT   CHRIST.MINSTER    AGAIN  463 

school,  whence  he  could  hear  the  usual  sing-song  tones  of 
the  little  voices  that  had  not  learned  Creation's  groan. 

He  waited  till  a  small  boy  came  from  the  school — one 
evidently  allowed  out  before  hours  for  some  reason  or 
other.     Jude  held  up  his  hand,  and  the  child  came. 

"  Please  call  at  the  school-house  and  ask  Mrs.  Phillot- 
son  if  she  will  be  kind  enough  to  come  to  the  church  for 
a  few  minutes." 

The  child  departed,  and  Jude  heard  him  knock  at  the 
door  of  the  dwelling.  He  himself  went  farther  into  the 
church.  Everything  was  new,  except  a  few  pieces  of 
carving  preserved  from  the  wrecked  old  fabric,  now  fixed 
against  the  new  walls.  He  stood  by  these  ;  they  seemed 
akin  to  the  perished  people  of  that  place  who  were  his 
ancestors  and  Sue's. 

A  light  footstep,  which  might  have  been  accounted  no 
more  than  an  added  drip  to  the  rainfall,  sounded  in  the 
porch,  and  he  looked  round. 

"Oh,  I  didn't  think  it  was  you!  I  didn't — oh,  Jude  !' 
A  hysterical  catch  in  her  breath  ended  in  a  succession  of 
them.  He  advanced,  but  she  quickly  recovered  and  went 
back. 

"  Don't  go — don't  go  !"  he  implored.  "  This  is  my  last 
time  !  I  thqught  it  would  be  less  intrusive  than  to  enter 
your  house.  *?Vnd  I  shall  never  come  again.  Don't,  then, 
be  unmerciful.  Sue,  Sue!  we  are  acting  by  the  letter; 
and  '  the  letter  killeth  !'  " 

"  I'll  stay — I  won't  be  unkind  !"  she  said,  her  mouth 
quivering  and  her  tears  flowing  as  she  allowed  him  to 
come  closer.  "  But  why  did  you  come  and  do  this  wrong 
thing,  after  doing  such  a  right  thing  as  you  have  done.'' " 

•'  What  right  thing?" 

"  Marrying  Arabella  again.  It  was  in  the  Alfredston 
paper.  She  has  never  been  other  than  yours,  Jude — in  a 
proper  sense.  And  therefore  you  did  so  well  —  oil,  so 
well ! — in  recognizing  it — and  taking  her  to  you  again.  " 

"God  above! — and  is  that  all  I've  come  to  hear?     If 


464  JUDE  THE   OBSCURE 

there's  anything  more  degrading,  immoral,  unnatural, 
than  another  in  my  life,  it  is  this  meretricious  contract 
with  Arabella  which  has  been  called  doing  the  right 
thing!  And  you,  too  —  you  call  yourself  Phillotsons 
wife  !     His  wife  !     You  are  mine  I" 

"Don't  make  me  rush  away  from  you  —  I  can't  bear 
much!     But  on  this  point  I  am  decided." 

"I  cannot  understand  how  you  did  it— how  you  think 
it — I  cannot !" 

"  Never  mind  that.  He  is  a  kind  husband  to  me,  and 
I— I've  wrestled  and  struggled,  and  fasted  and  prayed.  I 
have  nearly  brought  my  body  into  complete  subjection. 
And  you  mustn't— will  you — wake — " 

"  Oh,  you  darling  little  fool  ;  where  is  your  reason  } 
You  seem  to  have  suffered  the  loss  of  your  faculties!  I 
would  argue  with  you  if  I  didn't  know  that  a  woman  in 
your  state  of  feeling  is  quite  beyond  all  appeals  to  her 
brains.  Or  is  it  that  you  are  humbugging  yourself,  as  so 
many  women  do  about  these  things,  and  don't  actually 
believe  what  you  pretend  to,  ain!^  only  are  indulging  in 
the  luxury  of  the  emotion  raised  by  an  affected  belief.^" 
"  Luxury  !  How  can  you  be  so  cruel  !" 
"  You  dear,  sad,  soft,  most  melancholy  wreck  of  a  prom- 
ising human  intellect  that  it  has  ever  been  my  lot  to  be- 
hold !  Where  is  your  scorn  of  convention  gone  ?  I 
would  have  died  game  !" 

"You  crush,  almost  insult  me,  Jude !  Go  away  from 
me  !"     She  turned  off  quickly. 

"  I  will.  I  would  never  come  to  see  you  agam,  even  if 
I  had  the  strength  to  come,  which  I  shall  not  have  any 
more.     Sue,  Sue,  you  are  not  worth  a  man's  love  '" 

Her  bosom  began  to  go  up  and  down.  "  I  can't  endure 
you  to  say  that'"  she  burst  out;  and  her  eye  resting  on 
him  a  moment,  she  turned  back  impulsively.  "Don't, 
don't  scorn  me!  Kiss  me — oh,  kiss  me !— lots  of  times, 
and  say  I  am  not  a  coward  and  a  contemptible  humbug — 
I  can't  bear  it!"     She  rushed    up  to  him,  and,  with  her 


AT   CHRISTMINSTER  AGAIN  465 

mouth  on  his,  continued  :  "  I  must  tell  you — oh,  I  must — 
my  darling  Love !  It  has  been — only  a  church  marriage 
— an  apparent  marriage,  I  mean  !  He  suggested  it  at  the 
very  first !" 

"  How  ?" 

"  I  mean  it  is  a  nominal  marriage  only.  It  hasn't  been 
more  than  that  at  all  since  I  came  back  to  him  !" 

"Sue!"  he  said.  Pressing  her  to  him  in  his  arms,  he 
bruised  her  lips  with  kisses.  "If  misery  can  know  happi- 
ness, I  have  a  moment's  happiness  now!  Now,  in  the 
name  of  all  you  hold  holy,  tell  me  the  truth  and  no  lie. 
You  do  love  me  still  ?" 

"  I  do !  You  know  it  too  well !  .  .  .  But  I  niusin't  do 
this!     I  mustn't  kiss  you  back  as  I  would !" 

"  But  do!" 

"  And  yet  you  are  so  dear  ! — and  you  look  so  ill — " 

"  And  so  do  you  '  There's  one  more,  in  memory  of  our 
dead  little  children— yours  and  mine!" 

The  words  struck  her  like  a  blow,  and  she  bent  her 
head.  "  I  miistnt — I  ca7it  go  on  with  this  !"  she  gasped 
presently.  "  But  there,  there,  darling,  I  give  you  back 
your  kisses;  I  do,  I  do !  .  .  .  And  now  I'll  hate  myself  for- 
ever for  my  sin  !" 

"  No ;  let  me  make  my  last  appeal.  Listen  to  this : 
We've  both  remarried  out  of  our  senses.  I  was  made 
drunk  to  do  it.  You  were  the  same.  I  was  gin-drunk; 
you  were  creed-drunk.  Either  form  of  intoxication  takes 
away  the  nobler  vision.  .  .  .  Let  us  then  shake  off  our  mis- 
takes, and  run  away  together  !" 

"  No ;  again  no  I  .  .  .  Why  do  you  tempt  me  so  far, 
Jude  !  It  is  too  merciless  I  ,  .  .  But  I've  got  over  myself 
now.  Don't  follow  me  —  don't  look  at  me.  Leave  me, 
for  pity's  sake !" 

She  ran  up  the  church  to  the  east  end,  and  Jude  did  as 

she  requested.     He  did  not  turn  his  head,  but  took  up  his 

blanket,  which  she  had  not  seen,  and  went  straight  out. 

As  he  passed  the  end  of  the  church  she  heard  his  coughs 

30 


466  JUDE   THE    OBSCURE 

mingling  with  the  rain  on  the  windows,  and  in  a  last  in- 
stinct of  human  affection,  even  now  unsubdued  by  her 
fetters,  she  sprang  up  as  if  to  go  and  succor  him.  But  she 
Icnelt  down  again,  and  stopped  her  ears  with  her  hands 
till  all  possible  sound  of  him  had  passed  away. 

He  was  by  this  time  at  the  corner  of  the  green,  from 
which  the  path  ran  across  the  fields  in  which  he  had 
scared  rooks  as  a  boy.  He  turned  and  looked  back, 
once,  at  the  building  which  still  contained  .Sue  ;  and  then 
went  on,  knowing  that  his  eyes  would  light  on  that  scene 
no  more. 

There  are  cold  spots  up  and  down  Wessex  in  autumn 
and  winter  weather,  but  the  coldest  of  all,  when  a  north 
or  east  wind  is  blowing,  is  the  crest  of  the  down  by  the 
Brown  House,  where  the  road  to  Alfredstori  crosses  the 
old  Ridgeway.  Here  the  first  winter  sleets  and  snows 
fall  and  lie,  and  here  the  spring  frost  lingers  last  unthawed. 
Here  in  the  teeth  of  the  northeast  wind  and  rain  Jude 
now  pursued  his  way,  wet  through,  the  necessary  slowness 
of  his  walk  from  lack  of  his  former  strength  being  insuffi- 
cient to  maintain  his  heat.  He  came  to  the  mile-stone,  and, 
raining  as  it  was,  spread  his  blanket  and  lay  down  there 
to  rest.  Before  moving  on  he  went  and  felt  at  the  back 
of  the  stone  for  his  own  carving.  It  was  still  there,  but 
nearly  obliterated  by  moss.  He  passed  the  spot  where 
the  gibbet  of  his  ancestor  and  Sue's  had  stood,  and  de- 
scended the  hill. 

It  was  dark  when  he  reached  Alfredston,  where  he  had 
a  cup  of  tea,  the  deadly  chill  that  began  to  creep  into 
his  bones  being  too  much  for  him  to  endure  fasting.  To 
get  home  he  had  to  travel  by  a  steam  tram-car  and  t^vo 
branches  of  railway,  with  much  waiting  at  a  junction.  He 
did  not  reach  Christminster  till  ten  o'clock. 


IX 

On  the  platform  stood  Arabella.  She  looked  him  up 
and  down. 

"  You've  been  to  see  her  ?"  she  asked. 

"  I  have,"  said  Jude,  literally  tottering  with  cold  and 
lassitude. 

"  Well,  now  you'd  best  march  along  home." 

The  water  ran  out  of  hinTa^e  went,  and  he  was  com- 
pelled to  lean  against  the  wall  to  support  himself  while 
coughing. 

"You've  done  for  yourself  by  this,  young  man,"  said 
she.     "  I  don't  know  whether  you  know  it." 

"Of  course  I  do.     I  meant  to  do  for  myself." 

"What — to  commit  suicide?" 

"Certainly." 

"  Well.  I'm  blest !     Kill  yourself  for  a  woman  I" 

"  Listen  to  me,  Arabella.  You  think  you  are  the  strong- 
er ;  and  so  you  are,  in  a  physical  sense,  now.  You  could 
push  me  over  like  a  ninepin.  You  did  not  send  that  letter 
the  other  day,  and  I  could  not  resent  your  conduct.  But 
I  am  not  so  weak  in  another  way  as  you  think.  I  made  up 
my  m.ind  that  a  man  confined  to  his  room  by  inflammation 
of  the  lungs,  a  fellow  who  had  only  two  wishes  left  in  the 
world— to  see  a  particular  woman  and  then  to  die— could 
neatly  accomplish  those  two  wishes  at  one  stroke  by  taking 
this  journey  in  the  rain.  That  I've  done.  I  have  seen  her 
for  the  last  time,  and  I've  finished  myself— put  an  end  to 
a  feverish  life  which  ought  never  toJiav:e.beea-begun-'l  ^ 

"  Lord,  you  do  talk  lofty  !  Won't  you  have  something 
warm  to  drink  ?" 


^c^-' 


468  JUDE  THE   OBSCURE 

"  No,  thank  you.     Let's  go  home." 

They  went  along  by  the  silent  colleges,  and  Jude  kept 
stopping. 

"  What  are  you  looking  at  ?" 

"  Stupid  fancies.  I  see,  in  a  way,  those  spirits  of  the 
dead  again,  on  this  my  last  walk,  that  I  saw  when  I  first 
came  here  !" 

"  What  a  curious  chap  you  are  !" 

"  I  seem  to  see  them,  and  almost  hear  them  rustling. 
But  I  don't  revere  all  of  them,  as  I  did  then.  I  don't  be- 
lieve in  half  of  them.  The  theologians,  the  apologists, 
and  their  kin  the  metaphysicians,  the  high-handed  states- 
men, and  others,  no  longer  interest  me.  All  that  has  been 
spoiled  for  me  by  the  grind  of  stern  reality  !" 

The  expression  of  Jude's  corpse-like  face  in  the  watery 
lamplight  was  indeed  as  if  he  saw  people  where  there  was 
nobody'.  At  moments  he  stood  still  by  an  archway,  like 
one  watching  a  figure  walk  out ;  then  he  would  look  at  a 
window  like  one  discerning  a  familiar  face  behind  it.  He 
seemed  to  hear  voices,  whose  words  he  repeated  as  if  to 
gather  their  meaning. 

"  They  seem  laughing  at  me  !" 

"Who?" 

"Oh,  I  was  talking  to  myself !  The  phantoms  all  about 
here,  in  the  college  archways  and  windows.  They  used 
to  look  friendly  in  the  old  days,  particularly  Addison 
and  Gibbon  and  Johnson  and  Dr.  Browne  and  Bishop 
Ken— " 

"  Come  along,  do  !  Phantoms  !  There's  neither  living 
nor  dead  hereabouts  except  a  damn  policeman  !  I  never 
saw  the  streets  emptier." 

"  Fancy  !  The  Poet  of  Liberty  used  to  walk  here,  and 
the  great  Dissector  of  Melancholy  there  !" 

"  I  don't  want  to  hear  about  'em.     They  bore  me  !" 

"Walter  Raleigh  is  beckoning  to  me  from  that  lane — 
WyclifYe — Harvey — Hooker— Arnold— and  a  whole  crowd 
of  Tractarian  Shades — " 


IS 

AT   CHRISTMINSTER   AGAIN  469 

"  I  don'i  want  to  know  their  names,  I  tell  you  !  What 
do  I  care  about  folk  dead  and  gone  ?  Upon  my  soul,  you 
are  more  sober  when  you  have  been  drinking  than  when 
you  have  not !" 

"  I  must  rest  a  moment,"  he  said ;  and  as  he  paused, 
holding  to  the  railings,  he  measured  with  his  eye  the 
height  of  a  college  front.  "  This  is  old  Rubric  ;  and  this 
Sarcophagus  ;  and  up  that  lane  Crozier  and  Tudor  ;  and 
all  down  there  is  Cardinal  with  its  long  front,  and  its  win- 
dows with  lifted  eyebrows,  representing  the  polite  sur- 
prise of  the  University  at  the  efforts  of  such  as  I." 

"  Come  along,  and  I'll  treat  you." 

"Very  well.  It  will  help  me  home,  for  I  feel  the  chilly 
fog  from  the  meadows  of  Cardinal  as  if  death-claws  were 
grabbing  me  through  and  through.  As  Antigone  said,  I 
am  neither  a  dweller  among  men  nor  ghosts.  But,  Ara- 
bella, when  I  am  dead,  you'll  see  my  spirit  flitting  up  and 
down  here  among  these  !" 

"  Pooh  !  You  won't  die.  You  are  tough  enough  yet, 
old  man." 

It  was  night  at  Marj^green,  and  the  rain  of  the  after- 
noon showed  no  sign  of  abatement.  About  the  time  at 
which  Jude  and  Arabella  were  walking  the  streets  of 
Christminster  homeward,  the  Widow  Edlin  crossed  the 
green  and  opened  the  back  door  of  the  school-master's 
dwelling,  which  she  often  did  now  before  bedtime,  to  as- 
sist Sue  in  putting  things  away. 

Sue  was  muddling  helplessly  in  the  kitchen,  for  she  was 
not  a  good  housewife,  though  she  tried  to  be,  and  grew 
impatient  of  domestic  details. 

"  Lord  love  'ee,  what  do  ye  do  that  yourself  for  when 
I've  come  o'  purpose?     You  knew  I  should  come." 

"Oh,  I  don't  know — I  forgot!  No,  1  didn't  forget.  I 
did  it  to  discipline  myself.  I  have  scrubbed  the  stairs 
since  eight  o'clock.  I  must  practise  myself  in  my  house- 
hold duties.     I've  shamefully  neglected  them  !" 


47°  JUDE   THE  OBSCURE 

"  Why  should  ye  ?  He'll  get  a  better  school,  perhaps 
be  a  parson,  in  time,  and  you'll  keep  two  servants.  'Tis 
a  pity  to  spoil  them  pretty  hands." 

"  Don't  talk  of  my  pretty  hands,  Mrs.  Ediin.  This 
pretty  body  of  mine  has  been  the  ruin  of  me  already !" 

"  Pshoo — you've  got  no  body  to  speak  of !  You  put  me 
more  in  mind  of  a  sperrit.  But  there  seems  something 
wrong  to-night,  my  dear.     Husband  cross  ?" 

"  No.     He  never  is.     He's  gone  to  bed  early." 

"  Then  what  is  it.^" 

"  I  cannot  tell  you.  I  have  done  wrong  to-day.  And  I 
want  to  eradicate  it.  .  .  .  Well— I  will  tell  you  this;  Jude 
has  been  here  this  afternoon,  and  I  find  I  still  love  him — 
oh,  grossly !     I  cannot  tell  you  more." 

"  Ah  !"  said  the  widow.     "  I  told  'ee  how  'twould  be  !" 

"  But  it  sha'n't  be  !  I  have  not  told  my  husband  of  his 
visit;  it  is  not  necessary  to  trouble  him  about  it,  as  I 
never  mean  to  see  Jude  any  more.  But  I  am  going  to 
make  my  conscience  right  on  my  duty  to  Richard — by 
doing  a  penance — the  ultimate  thing.     I  must!" 

"  I  wouldn't — since  he  agrees  to  it  being  otherwise,  and 
it  has  gone  on  three  months  very  well  as  it  is." 

"  Yes — he  agrees  to  my  living  as  I  choose ;  but  I  feel  it 
is  an  indulgence  I  ought  not  to  exact  from  him.  It  ought 
not  to  have  been  accepted  by  me.  To  reverse  it  will  be 
terrible — but  I  must  be  more  just  to  him.  Oh,  why  was  I 
so  unheroic !" 

"  What  is  it  you  don't  like  in  him  ?"  asked  Mrs.  Edlin, 
curiously. 

"  I  cannot  tell  you.  It  is  something.  ...  I  cannot  say. 
The  mournful  thing  is,  that  nobody  would  admit  it  as  a 
reason  for  feeling  as  I  do;  so  that  no  excuse  is  left  me." 

"  Did  you  ever  tell  Jude  what  it  was?" 

"  Never." 

"  I've  heard  strange  tales  o'  husbands  in  my  time,"  ob- 
served the  widow,  in  a  lowered  voice.  "They  say  that 
when  the  saints  were  upon  the  earth  devils  used  to  take 


AT   CHRISTMINSTER  AGAIN  471 

husbands'  forms  o'  nights,  and  get  poor  women  into  all 
sorts  of  trouble.  But  I  don't  know  why  that  should  come 
into  my  head,  for  it  is  only  a  tale.  .  .  .  What  a  wind  and 
rain  it  is  to-night !  Well,  don't  be  in  a  hurry  to  alter 
things,  my  dear.     Think  it  over." 

"  No,  no !  I've  screwed  my  weak  soul  up  to  treating 
him  more  courteously — and  it  must  be  now — at  once — be- 
fore I  break  down  !" 

"  I  don't  think  you  ought  to  force  your  nature.  No 
woman  ought  to  be  expected  to." 

"  It  is  my  duty.     I  will  drink  my  cup  to  the  dregs  !" 

Half  an  hour  later,  when  Mrs.  Edlin  put  on  her  bonnet 
and  shawl  to  leave.  Sue  seemed  to  be  seized  with  vague 
terror. 

"No,  no  —  don't  go,  Mrs.  Edlin,"  she  implored,  her 
eyes  enlarged,  and  with  a  quick,  nervous  look  over  her 
shoulder. 

"  But  it  is  bedtime,  child." 

"  Yes,  but — there's  the  little  spare  room — my  room  that 
was.  It  is  quite  ready.  Please  stay,  Mrs.  Edlin —  I  shall 
want  you  in  the  morning." 

"Oh,  well,  I  don't  mind,  if  you  wish.  Nothing  will 
happen  to  my  four  old  walls,  whether  I  be  there  or  no." 

She  then  fastened  up  the  doors,  and  they  ascended  the 
stairs  together. 

"Wait  here.  Mrs.  Edlin,"  said  Sue.  "I'll  go  into  my 
old  room  a  moment  by  myself" 

Leaving  the  widow  on  the  landing.  Sue  turned  to  the 
cliamber  which  had  been  hers  exclusively  since  her  ar- 
rival at  Marygreen,  and,  pushing  to  the  door,  knelt  down 
by  the  bed  for  a  minute  or  two.  She  then  arose,  and,  tak- 
ing her  night-gown  from  the  pillow,  undressed,  and  came 
out  to  Mrs.  Edlin.  A  man  could  be  heard  snoring  in  the 
room  opposite.  She  wished  Mrs.  Edlin  good-night,  and 
the  widow  entered  the  room  that  Sue  had  just  vacated. 

Sue  unlatched  the  other  chamber  door,  and,  as  if  seized 
with  faintness,  sank  down  outside  it.     Getting  up  again. 


472  JUDE  THE   OBSCURE 

she  half  opened  the  door,  and  said,  "  Richard."  As  the 
word  came  out  of  her  mouth  she  visibly  shuddered. 

The  snoring  had  quite  ceased  for  some  time,  but  he  did 
not  reply.  Sue  seemed  relieved,  and  hurried  back  to  Mrs. 
Edlin's  chamber.  "Are  you  in  bed,  Mrs.  Edlin  .^"  she 
asked. 

"  No,  dear,"  said  the  widow,  opening  the  door.  "  I  be 
old  and  slow,  and  it  takes  me  a  long  while  to  un-ray.  I 
ha'n't  unlaced  my  jumps  yet." 

"  I — don't  hear  him  !     And  perhaps — perhaps — " 

"What,  child.?" 

"Perhaps  he's  dead!"  she  gasped.  "And  then  —  I 
should  be/r^<f,  and  I  could  go  to  Jude !  .  .  .  Ah — no — t 
forgot  her — and  God  !" 

"Let's  go  and  hearken.  No — he's  snoring  again.  But 
the  rain  and  the  wind  is  so  loud  that  you  can  hardly  hear 
anything  but  between  whiles." 

Sue  had  dragged  herself  back.  "  Mrs.  Edlin,  good-night 
again  !  I  am  sorry  I  called  you  out."  The  widow  re- 
treated a  second  time. 

The  strained,  resigned  look  returned  to  Sue's  face  when 
she  was  alone.  "  I  must  do  it — I  must !  I  must  drink  to 
the  dregs!"  she  whispered.     "  Richard!"  she  said  again. 

"  Hey — what  ?     Is  that  you,  Susanna  ?" 

"  Yes." 

"What  do  you  want?  Anything  the  matter.?  Wait  a 
moment."  He  pulled  on  some  articles  of  clothing,  and 
came  to  the  door.     "  Yes .?" 

"When  we  were  at  Shaston  I  jumped  out  of  the  win- 
dow rather  than  that  you  should  come  near  me.  I  have 
never  reversed  that  treatment  till  now  —  when  I  have 
come  to  beg  your  pardon  for  it,  and  ask  you  to  let  me  in." 

"Perhaps  you  only  think  you  ought  to  do  this?  I 
don't  wish  you  to  come  against  your  impulses,  as  I  have 
said." 

"  But  I  beg  to  be  admitted."  She  waited  a  moment, 
and  repeated,  "  I  beg  to  be   admitted  !     I    have  been  in 


AT   CHRISTMINSTER   AGAIN  473 

error — even  to-day.  I  have  exceeded  my  rights.  I  did  not 
mean  to  tell  you,  but  perhaps  I  ought.  I  sinned  against 
you  this  afternoon." 

"  How?" 

"  I  met  Jude  !     I  didn't  know  he  was  coming.     And — " 

"Well.?" 

"  I  kissed  him,  and  let  him  kiss  me." 

"  Oh— the  old  story  !" 

"  Richard,  I  didn't  know  we  were  going  to  kiss  each 
other  till  we  did  !" 

"  How  many  times.?" 

"  A  good  many.  I  don't  know.  I  am  horrified  to  look 
back  on  it,  and  the  least  I  can  do  after  it  is  to  come  to 
you  like  this." 

"Come — this  is  pretty  bad,  after  what  I've  done! 
.  .  .  Anything  else  to  confess  ?" 

•'  No."  She  had  been  intending  to  say:  "  I  called  him 
my  darting  Love."  But,  as  a  contrite  woman  always  keeps 
back  a  little,  that  portion  of  the  scene  remained  untold. 
She  went  on  :  "I  am  never  going  to  see  him  any  more. 
He  spoke  of  some  things  of  the  past,  and  it  overcame 
me.  He  spoke  of— the  children.  But,  as  I  have  said,  I 
am  glad— almost  glad,  I  mean— that  they  are  dead,  Rich- 
ard.    It  blots  out  all  that  life  of  mine  !" 

"  Well — about  not  seeing  him  again  any  more.  Come 
— you  really  mean  this.?"  There  was  something  in  Phil- 
lotson's  tone  now  which  seemed  to  show  that  his  three 
months  of  remarriage  with  Sue  had  somehow  not  been 
so  satisfactory  as  his  magnanimity  or  amative  patience 
had  anticipated. 

"Yes,  yes  !" 

"  Perhaps  you'll  swear  it  on  the  New  Testament?" 

"  I  will." 

He  went  back  to  the  room  and  brought  out  a  little 
brown  Testament.     "  Now  then  ■  So  help  you  God  !" 

She  swore. 
"  Very  good  I" 


474 


JUDE   THE   OBSCURE 


"  Now  I  supplicate  you,  Richard,  to  whom  I  belong,  and 
whom  I  wish  to  honor  and  obey,  as  I  vowed,  to  let  me  in." 

"  Think  it  over  well.  You  know  what  it  means.  Hav- 
ing you  back  was  one  thing — this  another.  So  think 
again." 

"I  have  thought — I  wish  this!" 

"  That's  a  complaisant  spirit — and  perhaps  you  are 
right.  With  a  lover  hanging  about,  a  half- marriage 
should  be  completed.  But  I  repeat  my  reminder  this 
third  and  last  time." 

"  It  is  my  wish  ! .  .  .  O  God  !" 

"  What  did  you  say  O  God  for.?" 

"  I  didn't  know  !" 

"  Yes,  you  do!  But — "  He  gloomily  considered  her 
thin  and  fragile  form  a  moment  longer  as  she  crouched 
before  him  in  her  night-clothes.  "Well,  I  thought  it 
might  end  like  this,"  he  said,  presently.  "  I  owe  you 
nothing,  after  these  signs ;  but  I'll  take  you  in  at  your 
word,  and  forgive  you." 

He  put  his  arm  round  her  to  lift  her  up.  Sue  started 
back. 

"What's  the  matter.''"  he  asked,  speaking,  for  the  first 
time,  sternly.  "  You  shrink  from  me  again  ? — just  as  for- 
merly!" 

"  No,  Richard — I — I — was  not  thinking — " 

"  You  wish  to  come  in  here  ?" 

"Yes." 

"You  still  bear  in  mind  what  it  means?" 

"  Yes.     It  is  my  duty  !" 

Placing  the  candlestick  on  the  chest  of  drawers,  he  led 
her  through  the  doorway,  and,  lifting  her  bodily,  kissed 
her.  A  wild  look  of  aversion  passed  over  her  face,  but, 
clinching  her  teeth,  she  uttered  no  cry. 

Mrs.  Edlin  had  by  this  time  undressed,  and  was  about 
to  get  into  bed,  when  she  said  to  herself :  "  Ah — perhaps 
I'd  better  go  and  see  if  the  little  thing  is  all  right.  How 
it  do  blow  and  rain  !" 


AT   CHRISTMINSTER  AGAIN  475 

The  widow  went  out  on  the  landing,  and  saw  that  Sue 
had  disappeared.  "Ah!  Poor  soul !  Weddings  be  fu- 
nerals, 'a  b'lieve,  nowadays.  Fifty-five  years  ago,  come 
fall,  since  my  man  and  I  married  !  Times  have  changed 
since  then !" 


X 


Despite  himself,  Jude  recovered  somewhat.and  worked 
at  his  trade  for  several  weeks.  After  Christmas,  however, 
he  broke  down  again. 

With  the  money  he  had  earned  he  shifted  his  lodgings 
to  a  yet  more  central  part  of  the  town.  But  Arabella  saw 
that  he  was  not  likely  to  do  much  work  for  a  long  while, 
and  was  cross  enough  at  the  turn  afifairs  had  taken  since 
her  remarriage  to  him.  "  I'm  hanged  if  you  haven't  been 
clever  in  this  last  stroke,"  she  would  say — "  to  get  a  nurse 
for  nothing  by  marrying  me  !" 

Jude  was  absolutely  indifferent  to  what  she  said, 
and,  indeed,  often  regarded  her  abuse  in  a  humorous 
light.  Sometimes  his  mood  was  more  earnest,  and  as 
he  lay  he  often  rambled  on  upon  the  defeat  of  his  early 
aims. 

"  Every  man  has  some  little  power  in  some  one  direction," 
he  would  say.  "  I  was  never  really  stout  enough  for  the 
stone  trade,  particularly  the  fixing.  Moving  the  blocks  al- 
ways used  to  strain  me,  and  standing  the  trying  draughts  in 
buildings  before  the  windows  are  in  always  gave  me  colds, 
and  I  think  that  began  the  mischief  inside.  But  I  felt  I 
could  do  one  thing  if  I  had  the  opportunity.  I  could  ac- 
cumulate ideas  and  impart  them  to  others.  I  wonder  if 
the  Founders  had  such  as  I  in  their  minds — a  fellow  good 
for  nothing  else  but  that  particular  thing.'  ...  I  hear 
that  soon  there  is  going  to  be  a  better  chance  for  such 
helpless  students  as  I  was.  There  are  schemes  afoot  for 
making  the  University  less  exclusive,  and  extending  its 
influence.     I  don't  know  much  about  it.     And  it  is  too 


II 


AT    CHRISTMINSTER    AGAIN  477 

late,  too  late  for  me!  Ah  —  and  for  how  many  worthier 
ones  before  me  !" 

"  How  you  keep  a-mumbling  !"  said  Arabella.  "  I  should 
have  thought  you'd  have  got  over  all  that  craze  about 
books  by  this  time.  And  so  you  would,  if  you'd  had  any 
sense  to  begin  with.  You  are  as  bad  now  as  when  we  were 
first  married." 

On  one  occasion  while  soliloquizing  thus  he  called  her 
"  Sue  "  unconsciously. 

"  I  wish  you'd  mind  who  you  are  talking  to  !"  said  Ara- 
bella, indignantly.  "  Calling  a  respectable  married  woman 
by  the  name  of  that — "  She  remembered  herself,  and  he 
did  not  catch  the  word. 

But  in  the  course  of  time,  when  she  saw  how  things  were 
going,  and  how  very  little  she  had  to  fear  from  Sue's  rival- 
ry, she  had  a  fit  of  generosity.  "  I  suppose  you  want  to 
see  your— Sue  ?"  she  said.  "  Well,  I  don't  mind  her  com- 
ing.    You  can  have  her  here  if  you  like." 

"  I  don't  wish  to  see  her  again." 

"  Oh — that's  a  change  !" 

"And  don't  tell  her  anything  about  me — that  I'm  ill,  or 
anything.     She  has  chosen  her  course.     Let  her  go  I" 

One  day  he  received  a  surprise.  Mrs.  Edlin  came  to 
see  him,  quite  on  her  own  account.  Jude's  wife,  whose 
feelings  as  to  where  his  affections  were  centred  had 
reached  absolute  indifference  by  this  time,  went  out,  leav- 
ing the  old  woman  alone  with  Judc.  He  impulsively  asked 
how  Sue  was,  and  then  said,  bluntly,  remembering  what 
Sue  had  told  him  :  "  I  suppose  they  are  still  only  husband 
and  wife  in  name?" 

Mrs.  Edlin  hesitated.  "  Weil,  no  —  it's  different  now. 
She's  begun  it  quite  lately — all  of  her  own  free-will." 

"  When  did  she  begin  ?"  he  asked,  quickly. 

"The  night  after  you  came.  But  as  a  punishment  to 
her  poor  self.     He  didn't  wish  it,  but  she  insisted." 

"  Sue,  my  Sue — you  darling  fool — this  is  almost  more 
than  I  can  endure  I  .  .  .  Mrs.  Edlin — don't  be  frightened 


478  JUDE  THE   OBSCURE 

at  my  rambling — I've  got  to  talk  to  myself,  lying  here  so 
many  hours  alone — she  was  once  a  woman  whose  intellect 
was  to  mine  like  a  star  to  a  benzoline  lamp  :  who  saw  all 
my  superstitions  as  cobwebs  that  she  could  brush  away 
with  a  word.  Then  bitter  affliction  came  to  us,  and  her 
intellect  broke,  and  she  veered  round  to  darkness.  Strange 
difference  of  sex,  that  time  and  circumstance,  which  en- 
large the  views  of  most  men,  narrow  the  views  of  women 
almost  invariably.  And  now  the  ultimate,  horror  has 
<:ome  —  her  giving  herself  like  this  to  what  she  loathes, 
in  her  enslavement  to  forms  .'—she,  so  sensitive,  so  shrink- 
ing, that  the  very  wind  seemed  to  blow  on  her  with  a 
touch  of  deference.  .  .  .  As  for  Sue  and  me,  when  we  were 
at  our  own  best,  long  ago — when  our  minds  were  clear, 
and  our  love  of  truth  fearless — the  time  was  not  ripe  for 
us !  Our  ideas  were  fifty  years  too  soon  to  be  any  good 
to  us.  And  so  the  resistance  they  met  with  brought  re- 
action in  her,  and  recklessness  and  ruin  on  me  !  .  .  .  There 
— this,  Mrs.  Edlin,  is  how  I  go  on  to  myself  continually, 
as  I  lie  here.     I  must  be  boring  you  awfully." 

"  Not  at  all,  my  dear  boy.  I  could  hearken  to  'ee  all 
day." 

As  Jude  reflected  more  and  more  on  her  news,  and 
grew  more  restless,  he  began  in  his  mental  agony  to  use 
terribly  profane  language  about  social  conventions,  which 
started  a  fit  of  coughing.  Presently  there  came  a  knock 
at  the  door  down-stairs.  As  nobody  answered  it,  Mrs. 
Edlin  herself  went  down. 

The  visitor  said,  blandly,  "The  doctor."  The  lanky 
form  was  that  of  Physician  Vilbert,  who  had  been  called 
in  by  Arabella. 

"  How  is  my  patient  at  present  ?"  asked  the  physician. 

"Oh,  bad — very  bad  !  Poor  chap,  he  got  e.xcited,  and 
do  blaspeam  terribly,  since  I  let  out  some  gossip  by  acci- 
dent— the  more  to  my  blame.  But  there — you  must  ex- 
cuse a  man  in  suffering  for  what  he  says,  and  I  hope  God 
will  forgive  him." 


AT   CHRISTMINSTER   AGAIN  479 

"  Ah  !    I'll  go  up  and  see  him.    Mrs.  Fawley  at  home  ?" 

"She's  not  in  at  present,  but  she'll  be  here  soon." 

Vilbert  went ;  but  though  Jude  had  hitherto  taken  the 
medicines  of  that  skilful  practitioner  with  the  greatest  in- 
difference, whenever  poured  down  his  throat  by  Arabel- 
la, he  was  now  so  brought  to  bay  by  events  that  he  vent- 
ed his  opinion  of  Vilbert  in  the  physician's  face,  and  so 
forcibly,  and  with  such  striking  epithets,  that  Vilbert  soon 
scurried  down-stairs  again.  At  the  door  he  met  Ara- 
bella, Mrs.  Edlin  having  left.  Arabella  inquired  how  he 
thought  her  husband  was  now,  and  seeing  that  the  doc- 
tor looked  ruffled,  asked  him  to  take  something.  He 
assented. 

"I'll  bring  it  to  you  here  in  the  passage," she  said. 
"  There's  nobody  but  me  about  the  house  to-daj''." 

She  brought  him  a  bottle  and  a  glass,  and  he  drank. 
Arabella  began  shaking  with  suppressed  laughter.  "  What 
is  this,  my  dear.'"  he  asked,  smacking  his  lips. 

"Oh,  a  drop  of  wine — and  something  in  it."  Laugh- 
ing again,  she  said  :  "  I  poured  your  own  love-philter  into 
it,  that  you  sold  me  at  the  Agricultural  Show,  don't  you 
remember  ?" 

"  I  do,  I  do  I  Clever  woman  !  But  you  must  be  pre- 
pared for  the  consequences."  Putting  his  arm  round 
her  shoulders,  he  kissed  her  there  and  then. 

"  Don't,  don't,"  she  whispered,  laughing  good-humored- 
ly.     "  My  man  will  hear." 

She  let  him  out  of  the  house,  and  as  she  went  back  she 
said  to  herself,  "  Well,  weak  women  must  provide  for  a 
rainy  day.  And  if  my  poor  fellow  up-stairs  do  go  off — 
as  I  suppose  he  will  soon  —  it's  well  to  keep  chances 
open.  And  I  can't  pick  and  choose  now  as  I  could  when 
I  was  younger.  And  one  must  take  the  old  if  one  can't 
get  the  young." 


XI 

The  last  pages  to  which  tlie  chronicler  of  these  lives 
would  ask  the  reader's  attention  are  concerned  with  the 
scene  in  and  out  of  Jude's  bedroom  when  leafy  summer 
came  round  again. 

His  face  was  now  so  thin  that  his  old  friends  would 
hardly  have  known  him.  It  was  afternoon,  and  Arabella 
was  at  the  looking-glass  curling  her  hair,  which  operation 
she  performed  by  heating  an  umbrella-stay  in  the  flame  of 
a  candle  she  had  lighted,  and  using  it  upon  the  flowing 
lock.  When  she  had  finished  this,  practised  a  dimple,  and 
put  on  her  things,  she  cast  her  eyes  round  upon  Jude. 
He  seemed  to  be  sleeping,  though  his  position  was  an  ele- 
vated one,  his  malady  preventing  him  lying  down. 

Arabella,  hatted,  gloved,  and  ready,  sat  down  and  wait- 
ed, as  if  expecting  some  one  to  come  and  take  her  place 
as  nurse. 

Certain  sounds  from  without  revealed  that  the  town 
was  in  festivity,  though  little  of  the  festival,  whatever  it 
might  have  been,  could  be  seen  here.  Bells  began  to 
ring,  and  the  notes  came  into  the  room  through  the  open 
window,  and  travelled  round  Jude's  head  in  a  hum.  They 
made  her  restless,  and  at  last  she  said  to  herself,  "  Why 
ever  doesn't  father  come.'" 

She  looked  again  at  Jude,  critically  gauged  his  ebbing 
life,  as  she  had  done  so  many  times  during  tiie  late 
months,  and,  glancing  at  his  watch,  which  was  hung  up 
by  way  of  timepiece,  rose  impatiently.  Still  he  slept,  and, 
coming  to  a  resolution,  she  slipped  from  the  room,  closed 
the    door   noiselessly,   and   descended    the   stairs.      The 


AT   CHRISTMINSTER  AGAIN  481 

house  was  empty.  The  attraction  which  moved  Arabella 
to  go  abroad  had  evidently  drawn  away  the  other  inmates 
long  before. 

It  was  a  warm,  cloudless,  enticing  day.  She  shut  the 
front  door,  and  hastened  round  into  Chief  Street,  and 
when  near  the  Theatre  could  hear  the  notes  of  the  organ, 
a  rehearsal  for  a  coming  concert  being  in  progress.  She 
entered  under  the  archway  of  Oldgate  College,  where  men 
were  putting  up  awnings  round  the  quadrangle  for  a  ball 
in  the  Hall  that  evening.  People  who  had  come  up  from 
the  country  for  the  day  were  picnicking  on  the  grass, 
and  Arabella  walked  along  the  gravel  paths  and  under  the 
aged  limes.  But  finding  this  place  rather  dull,  she  re- 
turned to  the  streets,  and  watched  the  carriages  drawing 
up  for  the  concert,  numerous  Dons  and  their  wives,  and 
undergraduates  with  gay  female  companions,  crowding 
up  likewise.  When  the  doors  were  closed,  and  the  con- 
cert began,  she  moved  on. 

The  powerful  notes  of  that  concert  rolled  forth  through 
the  swinging  yellow  blinds  of  the  open  windows,  over 
the  house-tops,  and  into  the  still  air  of  the  lanes.  They 
reached  so  far  as  to  the  room  in  which  Jude  lay,  and  it 
was  about  this  time  that  his  cough  began  again  and  awak- 
ened him. 

As  soon  as  he  could  speak  he  murmured,  his  eyes  still 
closed:  "A  little  water,  please." 

Nothing  but  the  deserted  room  received  his  appearand 
he  coughed  to  exhaustion  again — saying,  still  more  fee- 
bly :  "Water — some  water — Sue — Arabella!" 

The  room  remained  still  as  before.  Presently  he  gasped 
again:  "  Throat— water — Sue — darling — drop  of  water — 
please — oh,  please  !" 

No  water  came,  and  the  organ  notes,  faint  as  a  bee's 
hum,  rolled  in  as  before. 

While  he  remained,  his  face  changing,  sliouts  and 
hurrahs  came  from  somewhere  in  the  direction  of  the 
river. 

3' 


482  JUDE  THE  OBSCURE 

"  Ah— yes  !  The  Remembrance  games,"  he  murmured. 
"  And  I  here.     And  Sue  defiled  !" 

The  hurrahs  were  repeated,  drowning  the  faint  organ 
notes.  Jude's  face  changed  more;  he  whispered,  slowly, 
his  lips  scarcely  moving  : 

"  Let  the  day  perish  7vherein  I  was  borji,  and  the  night  in 
ivhich  it  was  said,  '  There  is  a  man  child  conceived.' " 

("  Hurrah  !") 

"'Let  that  day  be  darkness  ;  let  not  God  regard  it  from 
above,  neither  let  the  light  shine  upon  it.  Lo,  let  that  night 
be  solitajy,  let  no  joyful  voice  come  therein." 

("  Hurrah  !") 

"  IVhy  died  I  not  from  the  womb  ?  Why  did  I  not  give 
up  the  ghost  when  I  came  out  of  the  belly  ?  .  .  .  For  now 
should  I  have  lain  still  and  been  qiiiet.  I  should  have 
slept :  then  had  I  bcoi  at  rest !" 

("  Hurrah!") 

"  There  the  prisoners  rest  together;  they  hear  7wt  the 
voice  of  the  oppressor.  .  .  .  The  small  and  the  great  are 
there  ;  and  the  serrmnt  is  free  from  his  master.  Wherefore 
is  light  given  to  him  that  is  in  misery,  and  life  unto  the 
bitter  in  soul?" 

Meanwhile  Arabella,  on  her  journey  to  discover  what 
was  going  on,  took  a  short  cut  down  a  narrow  street  and 
through  an  obscure  nook  into  the  quad  of  Cardinal.  It 
was  full  of  bustle,  and  brilliant  in  the  sunlight  with  flow- 
ers and  other  preparations  for  a  ball  here  also.  A  car- 
penter nodded  to  her,  one  who  had  formerly  been  a  fellow- 
workman  of  Jude's.  A  corridor  was  in  course  of  erection 
from  the  entrance  to  the  Hall  staircase,  of  gay  red-and- 
buff  bunting.  Wagon-loads  of  boxes  containing  bright 
plants  in  full  bloom  were  being  placed  about,  and  the 
great  staircase  was  covered  with  red  cloth.  She  nodded 
to  one  workman  and  another,  and  ascended  to  the  Hall 
on  the  strength  of  their  acquaintance,  where  they  were 
putting  down  a  new  floor  and  decorating  for  the  dance. 


AT   CHRISTMINSTER  AGAIM  483 

The  cathedral  bell  close  at  hand  was  sounding  for  five- 
o'clock  service. 

"  I  should  not  mind  having  a  spin  there  with  a  fellow's 
arm  round  my  waist,"  she  said  to  one  of  the  men.  "  But, 
Lord,  I  must  be  getting  home  again — there's  a  lot  to  do. 
No  dancing  for  me  !" 

When  she  reached  home  she  was  met  at  the  door  by 
Stagg  and  one  or  two  otherof  Jude's  fellow  stone-workers. 
"  We  are  just  going  down  to  the  river,"  said  the  former, 
"  to  sec  the  boat-bumping.  But  we've  called  round  on  our 
way  to  ask  how  your  husband  is." 

"  He's  sleeping  nicely,  thank  you,"  said  Arabella. 

"That's  right.  Well,  now,  can't  you  give  yourself  half 
an  hour's  relaxation,  Mrs.  Favvley,  and  come  along  with 
us.-*     'Twould  do  you  good." 

"I  should  like  to  go,"  said  she.  "I've  never  seen  the 
boat-racing,  and  I  hear  it  is  good  fun." 

"  Come  along !" 

*'  How  I  wish  I  could  !"  She  looked  longingly  down 
the  street.  "Wait  a  minute,  then.  I'll  just  run  up  and 
sec  how  he  is  now.  Father  is  with  him,  I  believe,  so  I 
can  most  likely  come." 

They  waited,  and  she  entered.  Down-stairs  the  inmates 
were  absent  as  before,  having,  in  fact,  gone  in  a  body  to 
the  river,  where  the  procession  of  boats  was  to  pass. 
When  she  reached  the  bedroom  she  found  that  her  fa- 
ther had  not  even  now  come. 

"  Why  couldn't  he  have  been  here  !"  she  said,  impa- 
tiently. "  He  wants  to  see  the  boats  himself — that's  what 
it  is!" 

However,  on  looking  round  to  the  bed,  she  brightened, 
for  she  saw  that  Jude  was  apparently  sleeping,  though  he 
was  not  in  the  usual  half-clevatcd  posture  necessitated  by 
his  cough.  He  had  slipped  down,  and  lay  flat.  A  second 
glance  caused  her  to  start,  and  she  went  to  the  bed.  His 
face  was  quite  white,  and  gradually  becoming  rigid.  She 
touched  his  fingers  ;  they  were  cold,  though  his  body  was 


484  JUDE  THE   OBSCURE 

Still  warm.     She  listened  at  his  chest.     All  was  still  with- 
in.    The  bumping  of  near  thirty  years  had  ceased. 

After  her  first  appalled  sense  of  what  had  happened, 
the  faint  notes  of  a  military  or  other  brass  band  from  the 
river  reached  her  ears ;  and  in  a  provoked  tone  she  ex- 
claimed :  "To  think  he  should  die  just  now  !  Why  did 
he  die  just  now!"  Then,  meditating  another  moment 
or  two,  she  went  to  the  door,  softly  closed  it  as  before, 
and  again  descended  the  stairs. 

"  Here  she  is  !"  said  one  of  the  workmen.  "  We  won- 
dered if  you  were  coming,  after  all.  Come  along;  we 
must  be  quick  to  get  a  good  place.  .  .  .  Well,  how  is  he? 
Sleeping  well  still .'  Of  course,  we  don't  want  to  drag  'ee 
away  if — " 

"Oh  yes — sleeping  quite  sound.  He  won't  wake  yet,  " 
she  said,  hurriedly. 

They  went  with  the  crowd  down  Cardinal  Street,  where 
they  presently  reached  the  bridge,  and  the  gay  barges 
burst  upon  their  view.  Thence  they  passed  by  a  narrow 
slit  down  to  the  river-side  path  —  now  dusty,  hot,  and 
thronged.  Almost  as  soon  as  they  had  arrived  the  grand 
procession  of  boats  began,  the  oars  smacking  with  a  loud 
kiss  on  the  face  of  the  stream  as  they  were  lowered  from 
the  perpendicular. 

"  Oh,  I  say — how  jolly  I  I'm  glad  I've  come,"  said  Ara- 
bella. "And  —  it  can't  hurt  my  husband  —  my  being 
away." 

On  the  opposite  side  of  the  river,  on  the  crowded 
barges,  were  gorgeous  nosegays  of  feminine  beauty,  fash- 
ionably arrayed  in  green,  pink,  blue,  and  white.  The  blue 
flag  of  the  boat  club  denoted  the  centre  of  interest,  be- 
neath which  a  band  in  red  uniform  gave  out  the  notes 
she  had  already  heard  in  the  death-chamber.  Collegians 
of  all  sorts,  in  canoes  with  ladies,  watching  keenly  for 
"our"  boat,  darted  up  and  down.  While  she  regarded 
the  lively  scene  somebody  touched  Arabella  in  the  ribs, 
and.  looking  round,  she  saw  Vilbert. 


AT   CHRISTMINSTER   AGAIN  485 

"That  philter  is  operating,  you  know!"  he  said,  with  a 
leer.     "  Shame  on  'ee  to  wreck  a  heart  so  !" 

"  I  sha'n't  talk  of  love  to-day." 

"  Why  not }     It  is  a  general  holiday." 

She  did  not  reply.  Vilbert's  arm  stole  round  her  waist, 
which  act  could  be  performed  unobserved  in  the  crowd. 
An  arch  expression  overspread  Arabella's  face  at  the  feel 
of  the  arm,  but  she  kept  her  eyes  on  the  river  as  if  she 
did  not  know  of  the  embrace. 

The  crowd  surged,  pushing  Arabella  and  her  friends 
sometimes  nearly  into  the  river,  and  she  would  have 
laughed  heartily  at  the  horse-play  that  succeeded  if  the 
imprint  on  her  mind's  eye  of  a  pale,  statuesque  counte- 
nance she  had  lately  gazed  upon  had  not  sobered  her  a 
little. 

The  fun  on  the  water  reached  the  acme  of  excitement ; 
there  were  immersions,  there  were  shouts;  the  race  was 
lost  and  won,  the  pink  and  blue  and  yellow  ladies  retired 
from  the  barges,  and  the  people  who  had  watched  began 
to  move. 

"  Well,  it's  been  awfully  good  !"  cried  Arabella.  "  But 
I  think  I  must  get  back  to  my  poor  man.  Father  is  there. 
so  far  as  I  know;  but  I  had  better  get  back." 

"  What's  your  hurry  ?" 

"  Well,  I  must  go.  .  .  .  Dear,  dear,  this  is  awkward  !" 

At  the  narrow  gangway  where  the  people  ascended 
from  the  river-side  path  to  the  bridge  the  crowd  was 
literally  jammed  into  one  hot  mass — Arabella  and  Vilbcrt 
with  the  rest ;  and  here  they  remained  motionless,  Ara- 
bella exclaiming,  "Dear,  dear!"  more  and  more  impa- 
tiently; for  it  had  just  occurred  to  her  mind  that  if  Jude 
were  discovered  to  have  died  alone  an  inquest  might  be 
deemed  necessary. 

"  What  a  fidget  you  are,  my  love."  said  the  physician, 
who,  being  pressed  close  against  her  by  the  throng,  luui 
no  need  of  personal  efTort  for  contact.  "  Just  as  well 
have  patience  ;  there's  no  getting  away  yet!" 


486  JUDE  THE   OBSCURE 

It  was  nearly  ten  minutes  before  the  wedged  multitude 
moved  sufficiently  to  let  them  pass  through.  As  soon  as 
she  got  up  into  the  street  Arabella  hastened  on,  forbid- 
ding the  physician  to  accompany  her  farther  that  day. 
She  did  not  go  straight  to  her  house,  but  to  the  abode 
of  a  woman  who  performed  the  last  necessary  offices  for 
the  poorer  dead,  where  she  knocked. 

"  My  husband  has  just  gone,  poor  soul,"  she  said. 
"  Can  you  come  and  lay  him  out.^" 

Arabella  waited  a  few  minutes ;  and  the  two  women 
went  along,  elbowing  their  way  through  the  stream  of 
fashionable  people  pouring  out  of  Cardinal  meadow,  and 
bemg  nearly  knocked  down  by  the  carriages. 

'•  I  must  call  at  the  sexton's  about  the  bell,  too,"  said 
Arabella.  "  It  is  just  round  here,  isn't  it.'  I'll  meet  you 
at  my  door." 

By  ten  o'clock  that  night  Jude  was  lying  on  the  bed- 
stead at  his  lodging  covered  with  a  sheet,  and  straight 
as  an  arrow.  Through  the  partly  opened  window  the 
joyous  throb  of  a  waltz  entered  from  the  ball-room  at 
Cardinal. 

Two  days  later,  when  the  sky  was  equally  cloudless, 
and  the  air  equally  still,  two  persons  stood  beside  Jude's 
open  coffin  in  the  same  little  bedroom.  On  one  side  was 
Arabella,  on  the  other  the  Widow  Edlin.  They  were 
both  looking  at  Jude's  face,  the  worn  old  eyelids  of  Mrs. 
Edlin  being  red. 

"  How  beautiful  he  is !"  said  she. 

"  Yes.     He's  a  'andsome  corpse,"  said  Arabella. 

The  window  was  still  open  to  ventilate  the  room,  and 
it  being  about  noontide  the  clear  air  was  motionless  and 
quiet  without.  From  a  distance  came  voices,  and  an 
apparent  noise  of  persons  stamping. 

"What's  that.''"  murmured  the  old  woman. 

"  Oh,  that's  the  doctors  in  the  Theatre,  conferring 
Honorary  degrees  on  the  Duke  of  Hamptonshire  and  a 


AT   CHRISTMINSTER  AGAIN  487 

lot  more  illustrious  gents  of  that  sort.  It's  Remem- 
brance Week,  you  know.  The  cheers  come  from  the 
young  men." 

"  A)'e  ;  young  and  strong-lunged  I  Not  like  our  poor 
boy  here." 

An  occasional  word,  as  from  some  one  making  a  speech, 
floated  from  the  open  windows  of  the  Theatre  across  to 
this  quiet  corner,  at  which  there  seemed  to  be  a  smile  of 
some  sort  upon  the  marble  features  of  Jude  ;  while  the 
old,  superseded,  Delphin  editions  of  Virgil  and  Homer, 
and  the  dog-eared  Greek  Testament  on  the  neighboring 
shelf,  and  the  few  other  volumes  of  the  sort  that  he  had 
not  parted  with,  roughened  with  stone-dust  where  he  had 
been  in  the  habit  of  catching  them  up  for  a  few  minutes 
between  his  labors,  seemed  to  pale  to  a  sickly  cast  at  the 
sounds.  The  bells  struck  out  joyously,  and  their  rever- 
berations travelled  round  the  bedroom. 

Arabella's  eyes  removed  from  Judc  to  Mrs.  Edlin.  "D'ye 
think  she  will  come  ."*"  she  asked. 

"  I  could  not  say.     She  swore  not  to  see  him  again." 

"  How  is  she  looking?" 

"Tired  and  miserable,  poor  heart.  Years  and  years 
older  than  when  you  saw  her  last.  Quite  a  staid,  worn 
woman  now.  'Tis  the  man — she  can't  stomach  un,  even 
now  !" 

"If  Jude  had  been  alive  to  see  her,  he  would  hardly 
have  cared  for  her  any  more,  perhaps." 

"That's  what  we  don't  know.  .  .  .  Didn't  he  ever  ask 
you  to  send  for  her,  since  he  came  to  see  her  in  that 
strange  v/ay  .■*" 

"  No.  Quite  the  contrary.  I  offered  to  send,  and  he 
said  I  was  not  to  let  her  know  how  ill  he  was." 

"  Did  he  forgive  her?" 

"  Not  as  I  know." 

"  \Vcll  —  poor  little  thing,  'tis  to  be  believed  she's 
found  forgiveness  somewhere  I  She  said  she  had  found 
peace  !" 


488  JUDE  THE   OBSCURE 

"  She  may  swear  that  on  her  knees  to  the  holy  cross 
upon  her  necklace  till  she's  hoarse,  but  it  won't  be 
true !"  said  Arabella.  "  She's  never  found  peace  since 
she  left  his  arms,  and  never  will  again  till  she's  as  he  is 
now !" 


THE   END 


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UNIVERSITY  OF  CALIFORNIA  LIBRARY 

Los  Angeles 
This  book  is  DUE  on  the  last  date  stamped  below. 


p  ■ 

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OL   JAN  21 1986 
FEB  03  1986 


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